


Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x04: "Iron Horses"

by frogfarm



Series: Faith the Vampire Slayer [13]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)
Genre: F/F, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-01
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith and Willow investigate a rural community where the locals don't cotton to nosy outsiders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs), [teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/teaser)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer: 1x04 (teaser)** _

I'm turning into the Flash? Here's hopin'...

(Remaining outline needs 2-3 more scenes, but I can start Act 1 while finishing that.)

 

[Previously, on Faith the Vampire Slayer:](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/47732.html)

 

 

   _ I'm very disgruntled now  
   I want a way out, now..._

   - Funkadelic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   "Not that I'm completely opposed to getting away from it all? But a girl can only look at so many trees before you reach for your lighter." Faith does just that, the flick of her Zippo serving as punctuation. "How long until we're all recivilized?"

   "Let's worry about that after we're done here," Willow replies. In this case, _here_ is the lower part of Ohio. Their last few weeks of travel have been spent meandering north through the Appalachians, the hills and valleys finally beginning to level out.

   "Feels like we're goin' in circles." Faith is currently given to long periods of letting an unlit cigarette dangle from her lips, James Dean style. Maybe to stretch her smoking dollar. Or for the extra cool.

   "Since we came back to the states? We kind of _have_ been." Willow checks her mileage. They're still on the same rental car, but she's thinking of replacing it. For variety's sake.

   "Sure it wouldn't be faster throwin' darts at a map?"

   Willow assesses the level of complaint and judges it trivial. The Slayer sounds more a victim of boredom than a shining Jack Nicholson. She often wonders, in idle moments, just what it might take to get Faith to snap and go off into cloud-cuckooland, never to return.

   "Until we get an actual assignment from Giles, it's basically _follow your nose_. Well -- my nose." Willow tries for a Tabitha-type wiggle and frowns. That trick never works.

   "So where's the Bloodhound Gang headed this week?"

   Willow glances over. "Is this a bad touch joke?"

   "You know, I'm not _all_ about the rock and roll." Faith's irritation appears minor, but Willow knows better than to jump to conclusions.

   "I used to watch that stupid show in reruns. Before I started going out and committing my own crime." The Slayer rolls down the window and lights her cigarette, careful to keep stray ash from flying in Willow's direction. "I was gonna be a detective. Like Vikki."

   Willow tries to recall the _dramatis personae_ of this particular eighties relic. She can almost envision Faith, torn jeans and grimy cheeks; settling for educational TV as a last resort.

   "Vikki Allen? The black girl?"

   "She had the cutest little puffy pigtails --" Faith coughs, wiping the smile of recollection from her face.

   "Besides -- I got you to do the Nancy Drewin'. Give me somethin' to hit, I'm good to go."

   "Poor baby." Willow grins as she slows for the curve. "You haven't had a decent fight since those wanna-werewolves. No wonder you're trying to wear me out."

   "When I'm tryin'? You'll know."

   Willow ignores the smirk. "I'm just saying -- all sex and no Slay has got to be at least a _little_ bit stressful."

   "Want me to rustle up some grub?" Faith chuckles. "I could take the bow out. Grab us a Bambi."

   (_accept our humble gratitude, for your offering..._)

   "Or I could wrestle a bear." Faith doesn't appear to have noticed Willow's momentary fugue, the troubled expression the witch hastens to conceal.

   "Maybe you _are_ going stir crazy from the great outdoors." Willow casts about for a safe distraction. "Tell you what. If this doesn't check out, and we don't need to be anywhere else -- we could head up to New York. As long as we're still on the east coast..."

   Faith frowns, staring at the passing countryside. Willow hesitates.

   "Is something --"

   "It's cool." Faith shrugs. "Spent some time there a while back." The Slayer takes a final drag, pitching her filter out the window. Willow doesn't even protest at this atypical act of littering.

   "It was after my Watcher...Diana..." Faith swallows, looking more angry than sad. "That fucker Kakistos...killed her right in front of me, and I booked. Hopped the first bus to the big apple -- two, maybe three weeks snatchin' purses and pickin' pockets -- I had my ticket to Sunnydale. Never looked back."

   "Bad memories?" Willow ventures.

   "Kinda short on good ones." Faith plucks at her seatbelt as she glances over, almost shy. "Makin' up for lost time."

   "Then we're definitely going." Willow reaches out for an emotional hand squeeze, careful to keep both eyes on the road. "Ooh! I've got relatives there --"

   "Well, we're here now." Faith is quick to change the subject. "So let's get her done."

   Willow sighs, not too loud.

   "Grab my notebook? Not the laptop --"

   "Like you're gonna surf and drive," Faith snorts. She rummages through the bag at her feet and fishes out a tattered, spiral bound wad. "What section?"

   "Green -- wait." Willow frowns in concentration. "When did I explain my color coding system?"

   "You didn't." Faith flips open to the proper spot, skimming down the page. "I was lookin' at it last night. While you were sleepin'."

   "Oh, really." Willow is mildly taken aback.

   The Slayer shrugs again, sounding distracted.

   "I was bored." A hint of defensive irritation. "Not like it's a diary --"

   "No -- you're right." Willow searches for a way out of this pit. "The map should be right there --"

   "Got it." Faith unfolds the map and orients herself. "So where the hell is this place?"

   "That's one of the funnier things. As in funny peculiar."

   "Not hearin' a laugh track." Faith squints at the garish bands of color. "What's with the psychedelic freakout?"

   "That's what happens when you try to print high-res on a cheap rented kiosk at the strip mall." Willow hits cruise control, allowing her cramping calf some rest and relaxation. "Even with a magnifying glass -- there's too many dashed and dotted lines. The boundaries are really fuzzy."

   Faith scrutinizes the legend. "Population?"

   "Even fuzzier. Apparently, this region has one of the worst census return rates in the country." Willow rolls her eyes. "Paranoia strikes deep in the heartland."

   "You think it's just the billhillies? I got this great bridge. Built on a swamp and everything." Faith snorts, shaking her head. "Someone comes round in a uniform askin' questions, any halfway sane person's gonna be all _who wants to know?_"

   "Maybe in your world." Willow's retort holds just enough affection to soften the blow. "I know, I'm white bread suburbia --"

   "Hate to break it to you, Will. Officer Friendly's long gone, if he ever existed." Faith's own humor is as cynical as ever. "Sorry to burst your bubble. But when a cop -- or anything close -- comes knockin'? I'll bet you can't find one in ten that ain't scared to open that door."

   "Because it's a slippery slope from counting bathrooms to _Arbeit Macht Frei_?" Willow can imagine her mother berating her for insensitivity.

   "Mock the Macht all you want." Faith doesn't sound overly grumpy, but she's using My-Mind-Is-Made-Up Voice. "I know what I know."

   "Well...there _was_ that little matter of census data being used to round up Japanese-American citizens." Willow's brow wrinkles. "And it's not directly related, but that reminds me -- can't forget good old Prisoner Code Eight."

   "What's that?"

   "Same period, more or less. During World War Two? The Nazis used these IBM punch card machines. They were like the big iron of their day. Major computing horsepower." Willow grimaces. "Code Eight was for a Jewish person."

   "No shit." Faith's lip curls in disgust. "Efficiency uber alles."

   "Helped keep the trains running on time..." Willow tries not to sound too relieved. "Oh hey, fruit stand!"

   Faith is clearly skeptical, but doesn't pursue this, and Willow sends out a silent thanks to the universe at large. Escaping conversational minefields unscathed is difficult enough without her still learning how to change subjects with some degree of grace.

   "You folks get a lot of business?" Willow inquires, sorting through bins and baskets. The couple reclining behind the table in their frayed and clanking lawn chairs exude the air of ease only achieved by a lifetime of togetherness.

   "Enough." The man accepts her twenty with one wrinkled hand, carefully counting out change from the rusty lockbox under his chair. "Not a lot of new folks."

   Willow lobs an apple at Faith, standing by the car. The Slayer doesn't look up from the map as she raises one hand, fruit smacking into place.

   "We're...kinda new." Willow tries not to wince at the man's raised eyebrows, the wet crunch from behind as Faith bites down.

   "Business or pleasure?" The question sounds casual as the man eases back and adjusts his straw hat. His wife appears to be asleep, her own headgear pulled over her face.

   "A little of both, actually. I'm taking some time off school -- road tripping, taking pictures -- but I've been thinking of doing a history paper." This last part is so close to true that Willow doesn't even feel the usual pang of guilt. "You know...try to work in everything we see along the way."

   "Sounds like a fine time." The man nods, apparently satisfied. "We don't get out much, do we?"

   A grunt comes from beneath the woman's hat. The man chuckles.

   "You folks take care."

   His smile remains as Willow climbs back in the car, joined by a wave as the tiny two-door pulls out onto the road, disappearing around the bend. The man turns to his companion.

   "You want to?"

   Another grunt, more akin to a growl. The man heaves a sigh.

   "Didn't think so."

   He rises stiffly from his chair with a stretch and a creak. His companion ignores him as he walks over to the side yard, toward a barren and rusted flagpole.

   He kneels, ignoring protesting joints. The smallest key on his fob unlocks a door set in the base of the pole, and the man removes a square of black and yellow cloth.

   Affixing it to the ropes, he begins to pull.

   The severed snake rises overhead, fluttering in the breeze.

 

 

 

**


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x04: "Iron Horses" (Act 1)** _

>   
> _You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you._  
>  \- Ray Bradbury

 

Still not in love with this like the last one. But the more I write, the more I like it.

If you wanted more Faith and Willow working together, not just sleeping together? (*) You might like it too.

(*) "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/93269.html#cutid1))

 

**Faith the Vampire Slayer  
Year One**

by [](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/profile)[**frogfarm**](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/) ([damaged justice](mailto:realfrogfarm@gmail.com))  
editorial oversight and endless inspiration by [](http://strapping-lass.livejournal.com/profile)[**strapping_lass**](http://strapping-lass.livejournal.com/)

 

1x04:

"Iron Horses"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   The original scenario as envisioned by Willow had been to drive through the uncharted areas on her map, filling in the terrain as they went. It wasn't as though they couldn't afford it. Gas prices weren't horrid, the economy she'd picked out was getting decent mileage --

   "I don't know about you, but I need to move around under my own power for a while."

   Faith, it seemed, had other plans.

   "You're sure?" Willow tries to calculate the optimal path. "I'm just concerned about efficiency. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

   "Then let's get to it. 'Cause I'm all outta chewing gum." Faith cracks her knuckles, timing it with a dramatic smack of her lips like a popping bubble.

   "Am I going to have to fight you for the restroom?"

   "Not that it's appropriate for polite company?" Faith's sarcasm indicates her opinion of such company. "But yeah. Kinda dyin' over here. Hit the john, move around, stretch my legs --"

   "It's okay," Willow interjects, in her best soothing tone. The genuine desperation in the other woman's voice is the clearest evidence of a problem demanding to be addressed. "Looking for a spot now. Holler if you see something --"

   "I can't believe your ass ain't as sore as mine."

   Willow would laugh, but the Slayer's tone says this subject might not be changing any time soon. For whatever reason, this is a tender spot.

   "You sound really antsy," she settles for observing. "Like on-fire, in the pants."

   "Maybe." Faith's grudging tone gives nothing away as she leans forward, resting her chin on one arm.

   "Is it the lack of action?" Willow hazards. "Or if you still wanted to drive -- we could probably get away with it, out here..."

   "We haven't been kicking around the boondocks so I could take her out for a spin." The decisive declaration is a far cry from Faith's posture, slumped over, staring out at the passing trees. "Or because you had some vague fuzzy feeling. You said --"

   "It's like a roach motel. Demons check in, but they don't check out."

   "Which means what in not-dumbing it down talk?"

   Faith sounds impatient rather than irritated. Nonetheless, Willow chooses her words with care.

   "Every report -- and it's not like I'm working with a huge sample -- but any evidence of actual demons entering this area, the main outline on the map...it just stops. End of the line."

   "So we need to figure out where they're going from here," Faith surmises. "If they're goin' anywhere."

   Willow's frown deepens. "Someone building up an army?"

   "Let's not go assuming." Faith sounds untroubled. "You know what they say about folks who assume."

   "Am I making an ass of myself?"

   "I don't know." Faith looks over, apparently trying to assess how serious this is. Willow can't quite see from keeping her eyes on the road, but the Slayer's casual gaze seems to be growing sharper, more intense. "Maybe you're just tryin' to keep me outta the fight?"

   "Not on your life. Or mine," Willow emphasizes. "If something needs pounding, by all means -- hammer away."

   "We're not talking about your love life." The dry humor in Faith's voice is replaced with exasperation. "I appreciate the convenience. But I don't need protection."

   Willow pulls in and kills the engine. It's a testament to how much Faith is focused on their conversation that the Slayer hadn't even noticed the approaching gas station.

   "I know you can take care of yourself." She goes for a teasing note. "But there's no old-girl network to fall back on. Last time, we had another Slayer if things went south."

   "Last time, we didn't need another Slayer." Faith unbuckles herself, rubbing the crease in her shirt from the seatbelt. "And quit jinxin' us. Things always go south."

   "Then you shouldn't have anything to worry about," Willow smiles. "You'll get all the action you can handle."

   "Can't help it." Faith looks away with a sigh. "Stupid."

   "What is?" Willow bites her lip. "Not you --"

   "Yeah." Faith leans back, cracking her neck as she stares at the roof of the car. "Me. Knowing everything that can go wrong..."

   "And?"

   "And _still_ itchin' for a fight."

   Willow squeezes her hand again. "Can't take the Slayer out of the girl."

   Faith returns the pressure before pulling away, still gazing up at nothing.

   "I told B -- this is what we were built for. If you're not having fun, you're not doin' it right."

   "And you're...not finding the fun?" Willow's inquiry produces no response. The witch fumbles for some reassurance when Faith looks over, breaking the silence.

   "Just a little outta practice." The Slayer doesn't smile, but the angst in her voice is significantly reduced. "Don't wanna get sloppy."

 

**

 

   She hadn't meant to get worked up. Or to open up about it. Maybe Will's right: Cabin fever, pure and simple. Just need to move.

   Get the kinks out.

   She finishes topping off the tank, looking around as she screws the cap back on. The general level of civilization appears on a par with the squalor of Hollow Springs, where they last spent any significant time. Since their run-in with the hunter they've stuck to back roads, on and off the grid, and while the countryside is pretty -- and Faith not yet sufficiently cynical to think she's seen them all -- she's starting to develop a hefty jones for even a glimpse of sweet concrete.

   Her legs and most everything else are protesting the hours of inactivity, as well as being forced into wakefulness, and she glances at the building before going into a few basic stretches. Nothing fancy that might draw attention...

   "They don't have any postcards." Willow's grousing is good-natured as the witch tosses her a bottled cola. Faith easily catches it, raising one eyebrow.

   "You know, one of these days I'm gonna miss."

   "Some day when we're both far more blue of hair." Willow takes a sip of root beer. "Also for you -- jerky?"

   "_Cool_." Faith gives the hand-wrapped package the most cursory of examinations before tearing it open and setting to. "What kind?"

   "Beef." Willow's look of apology is tinged with something else. "The guy said they didn't have venison until fall."

   Faith keeps her expression neutral, as shared memory flares to life. Stupid of her to forget. Even if she hadn't actually been there for all those Scooby adventures while she was tucked away in her cozy prison cell, one magic walkabout, courtesy of a certain Miss Rosenberg, had brought that blissful ignorance to a crashing end. And to this day, the part that made the biggest impression was quite naturally one of the very worst -- that year everyone seemed to join her, diving headlong into the deep end. The urge to apologize for bringing up Bambi is subsumed by guilt.

   "You didn't get any?"

   "Granola bar," Willow assures her, holding it up. "Homemade."

   Good enough. "What about maps? You said you wanted to compare --"

   "Nothing." Willow's grousing is sufficiently pouty that Faith thinks the worst is over. "What kind of self-respecting tourist trap doesn't even have _postcards_?"

   "Got me." And it's the truth. Now more than ever, Faith considers herself a city girl, through and through. "When I was on that cross country run, I pretty much stayed outta places like this."

   "How come?" Willow doesn't appear to be in any hurry to get back to the car. Suddenly, Faith is just a little less glad.

   "Easier to get lost in a crowd." She works her hands back and forth, from her wrists on up to her shoulders. Exercise is a convenient way to avoid meeting someone's eyes, but a technique of limited utility if too often abused. Also -- speaking of abused -- good excuse for a manipulative jiggle.

   She risks a look back, slightly disgruntled to find Willow gazing off into the field across the road. A fine time to respect her emotional privacy.

   "Still," Willow muses, sounding thoughtful. "Your eyes are fresh. Maybe you'll see something I miss."

   "All I see is a whole lotta nature. And a bunch of folks enjoying it way more'n me." Faith smiles, trying to take the edge off. It feels a little stiff.

   "But what's your initial impression?" Willow presses. "Totally spontaneous?"

   Faith continues to stretch her arms as she indulges the other woman, taking another look around. At first glance it's no different from any of the small town they've passed through: Faded glory, long past its prime. But there's a quiet, bustling energy to this place, underneath the surface; heavy with dust and grit, well worn without being run down.

   "When I got more than a vague fuzzy feeling, you'll be the first to know." Faith shifts gears. "Whaddaya want a postcard for? Who," she amends.

   "I was thinking Dawn. Then I just figured I'd send one to everyone -- but they didn't have any, so that was a bust." Willow covers her mouth and issues a dainty belch. Faith refrains from turning it into a contest this time.

   "I mean, it's one thing to not see any name brands. No Moon Pies or RC." The witch gestures, taking in the horizon. "But even the deadest town is celebrating X years of history, or the nineteen-umpty state foosball championship, or the biggest ball of twine -- it's always something. Have you seen _anything_ like that?"

   Faith doesn't have to consider for long. "Nope."

   "And that's weird." Willow drains the last of her root beer. "Not to mention annoying. Historical landmarks always make good pictures."

   "Right -- camera phone." Privately, Faith alternates between considering this a silly luxury feature and an effing amazing James Bond gadget come to life. "Thought you said the quality wasn't all that?"

   "Better than nothing," Willow replies. "So if you see something cool, remind me. I just want some quick snaps I can print out to make my own postcards. You know -- in between taking shots of everything else. For research."

   "Just be careful where you point that thing," Faith warns. "Or who's watchin' when you do."

   "You think it'll be like Pennsylvania? Lots of Amish, Mennonite, old-fashioned --"

   "Bad enough in the big city, all those cameras they got." Faith knows she sounds tinfoil-hatty, but she can't bring herself to care. "Small town America? Everybody knows your name. When they don't --"

   "They notice you," Willow finishes. "Point taken."

   Faith surveys the landscape. "Where to?"

   Willow plasters on a smile, pulling out her notebook.

 

**

 

   "That's right. A _Slayer_."

   "_Holy sheep dip_." The voice echoes from her speakers, low and excited. "_Good thinking using the quant. No telling what kind of power the witch has -- but it's a good bet she'll try magickal eavesdropping first_."

   "My exact thought." She can feel her bones aching already despite the warm weather. It'll only get worse a few months down the road; all that canning plus the falling temperature, the occasional high pressure fronts. At least her quant has a comfy headset for hands-free operation.

   "_You up for a meeting?_"

   "You know how I hate getting involved," she chuckles. Time was she couldn't have helped that sounding like an insult. "Gonna send the man of the house."

   "_Be good to see him_." The voice turns serious. "_You stay safe_."

   "Now where's the fun in that?"

   His laugh echoes in her ears as she disconnects. She turns to find her man regarding her from the doorway, rheumy eyes bright and alert.

   "Are you sure you're not overreacting?"

   "Are you sure you're not going blind?" The retort comes harsher than she might like, but she's never pulled a punch in her life. "As if a blind man couldn't smell the power coming off of that girl. A Slayer is just the icing on the cake."

   "And are you so convinced already they mean us harm?" He's standing straighter than usual; hat discarded, collar undone, weathered smile turned upside down. Those piercing grey eyes were second only to that smile in her heart, and she doesn't know when she gave up hope of seeing it again.

   "You say paranoid, I say prudent." She turns away and busies herself with the chopping of garlic and onion. Good excuse as any, for ignorance or tears. "I'm just surprised _you_ don't seem to know better."

   "Yet you send me as your proxy." His secret amusement makes her look back, though no smile is to be found. "Knowing the case I argue will be in complete opposition to your own."

   "I wouldn't say complete." The unexpected softness surprises her, lending additional bitterness. "They can have their three ring circus and welcome to it. I intend to take advantage of every excuse my declining health permits."

   "Are you unwell?" His solicitousness at the drop of a hat never ceases to amaze her, as he discards formality. "Can I get you anything while I'm out?"

   "A new spine." That sounded more affectionate. Not so much sinking in with the claws. "And get your ass back here, on the double."

   She ignores the throb in her joints, listening to the sound of the truck die away before allowing herself to let go the counter. Every step is a new adventure in pain as she makes her way to the living room. The bright afternoon sun is in little evidence here, the heavy curtains pulled tight against intrusion.

   The bookshelves are built into one entire wall from ceiling to floor, contents crammed to overflowing and shrouded with dust and neglect. Nevertheless, her failing sight falls without hesitation on the one she seeks. Retrieving it is something else, which involves standing on tiptoe. Another adventure.

   She manages to pull it down without incident and cracks open the fragile, yellowed pages with infinite care, peering at the faded inscription. As if she didn't know every word by heart.

   "Curling up with a good book?"

   She manages to sound calm. "Didn't hear you knock."

   "It's cute." The voice is soft as cream, or a fresh kill. "That you think I would."

   "Didn't say that." She's got her bearings now, but she doesn't turn around. For one, if she moves the wrong way, her knee might give out. But any fear she had of this particular intruder is long past.

   "Having a little trouble?" A snide, almost seductive taunt. "Eyes not what they used to be?"

   "At least my lips don't move, _blondie_."

   "Oh -- you wound me."

   "Unfortunately wrong as ever." She tucks the precious volume back into place, limping over to the sofa.

   "Not all of us have too much brains for our own good." The sigh is dramatic and effortless. "I suppose I'll just have to coast along on my natural beauty."

   Having made herself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, she finally deigns to gaze upon her unwelcome visitor. Flawless teeth and skin; a glittering, skintight burgundy number that achieves the impossible task of appearing subtle and chaste.

   Same old thing.

   The vision tosses back its hair. "How's that working out for you?"

   "I earned every one of these." She points to her own field of grey, not bothering with a piercing gaze or any such nonsense. "So unless you're here to chop my firewood, or fix my leaky roof? You can leave me be and quit adding to 'em."

   "I am not your servant." A breath of frost or fire, underneath the pleasantness.

   "And no one here is yours."

   "You think so?" The silky laughter infiltrates her very pores, seeps in and clings to her bones. "Change is on the way. Whether you like it or not."

   "Might be right about that." She keeps her voice and expression as neutral as possible. The only thing predictable about this bitch is her utter unpredictability.

   "And I _will_ have what you stole from me."

   "Last time you were here, you called me a thief." The gloves are off, and it feels so good to drop the mask. "That was over thirty years ago. And if you don't remove yourself, we'll see if I can still throw you out."

   Her adversary's smile grows larger, virtually filling the room.

   "Don't worry, dear." A fly-blown kiss lands on her cheek, and she resists the urge to brush it away. "It won't be much longer."

   She shuts her eyes, unwilling to witness what ever parting shot is on display. Once closed, they remain so as she curls up on the couch, pulls the blanket tighter about her bony, frail form.

   He'll be back. They'll figure out what to do.

   Until then, it's time for a nap.

   Arguing is hard work.

 

**

 

   When Faith used the words _move around_, she hadn't planned on hiking the rest of the day. No big deal, apart from the normal expected concern regarding her non-Slayer companion. But the witch is doing a good job keeping up. Or more importantly, not complaining about the pace being set.

   "I'm good." Willow declines the proffered canteen, puffing a little as she clears the final step to join Faith at the top of the hill. They'd located a fallen branch of appropriate size and sturdiness, which the redhead put to immediate use as a walking stick. All she needs is a robe and a pointy hat for the full Gandalf.

   "Let's take a load off." Faith doesn't make it a suggestion. Willow gratefully sinks to the ground, retrieving her notebook. "Survey says?"

   "Give me a second..." Willow's still getting her breath back, and Faith takes a moment to take in the view. The formerly mountainous terrain they've been following these past few weeks has been reduced to a series of scattered and scrubby foothills, littered with gopher holes like adolescent pockmarks. One wrong step could mean a broken ankle for a human; definitely wounded pride for a Slayer. Half the reason it's taken so long to get this far from the car.

   "You wanna head back, just say the word."

   "Really -- I'm fine." Will has her nose buried so deep in her notes, Faith can't tell if her courtesy was taken as insult. The redhead's next words dispel any uncertainty.

   "I'm not a complete tenderfoot. Even if I only lasted a month in girl scouts before Mom yanked me out." Ancient embarrassment rings anew in Willow's voice. "Ideological conflict with the troop leader."

   "Bummer." Faith almost apologizes for not meaning it.

   "Well, it kind of ruins the joke. Because I can't say I was never a scout --"

   "And I _know_ you can spell honor." Faith's grin turns to a sarcastic sneer halfway through. "Plus a million other words I don't know the meaning of."

   Willow says nothing, but her quiet smile says she's not buying the self-flagellation. Faith finds it in herself to break the silence.

   "So how much further, Papa Smurf?"

   "I'm more David the Gnome. Better yet, the original book." Willow gives a nostalgic sigh. "Giles was right about a lot more than magick."

   Faith kneels and pretends to inspect the map, distracting herself with the faint berry smell of the other woman's shampoo. "What're those?"

   "Abandoned mineshafts." Willow chuckles. "Can't afford a mineshaft gap."

   "Come again?"

   Willow hastily clears her throat. "I didn't want to say anything until I compared the topographical data. But if you were itching to put a few fresh notches on your axe -- the odds just went up."

   Faith raises an eyebrow. "Demons?"

   "By the bucketload." Willow points to the darkest, centremost set of rings. Tiny dots of fire spring to life, dancing on the paper without consuming it.

   "So in answer to your question, young Smurfette?" The witch rises with a grunt of effort, leaning on her staff as she gestures west. "Not far now."

 

**

 

   "Oh God. I see 'em --"

   "Shut up!" The terse, barked command is likewise little short of hysteria. "What part of _radio silence_ did not sink in --"

   "Screw this. I'm gettin' the hell outta here --"

   "Everyone -- settle down." The profoundly comforting bass rumble does nothing to assuage the growing fear of the assembled crowd.

   "Easy for you to say!" Claws grip and rake the stone walls, accompanying a cold, angry hiss. "You want us to die here?"

   "On the contrary." The calm patience is unperturbed. "But if that's what you'd prefer, then by all means, keep shouting and carrying on. I'm sure the echo carries quite well."

   "If we don't run? We fight."

   "No. You watch, and you wait. And if the time comes, you fight. But if any one of you wants to hit instead of hit back?" A hint of steel in that ancient voice. "Pray those girls see you before I do."

 

**

 

   Faith's suggestion to flip a coin had been rejected on the grounds that there were at least three visible entrances. Whatever concern maintained its operations here had closed up shop decades ago, the sparse remaining bits of metal rusted over and choked out by weeds hardy enough to take root in the hard and bitter soil. The supporting timber is partially collapsed at the main tunnel, someone's half-hearted effort at boarding it over now rotted away like the mouth of an old, toothless man.

   "You sure you want to do this?" Faith scans the hillside, noting skidmarks of rockslides past. "Not a lotta daylight left."

   "All the more reason to get as much done as we can." Willow checks her pockets to assure herself of their contents. "If we're going up against an army, I want a better look at the numbers before the sun goes down."

   Faith glances back at her. "Seems kinda gung ho."

   "I don't see a _no trespassing_ sign," Willow points out.

   "That's not the point." Faith stops there, clearly itching to say more.

   "I know I didn't bring a helmet, but I'm willing to risk a cave-in if you are."

   "Just the two of us?"

   "Um..." Willow pauses, unsure if confirmation will be taken as insanity. "Yeah?"

   An excruciating, anticipatory smile spreads across the Slayer's face.

   "That's what I thought you said."

 

**

 

   The mines are every inch as dank and treacherous as their initial explorations indicate, and Faith finds herself taking unspoken but significant comfort in the light Willow provides; a diaphanous cloud of liquid, golden fireflies that surrounds them as they move, flowing into every corner to chase away the shadows. The witch stops every so often to consult her notes, occasionally pointing out features of geological interest.

   "So now you can say you've been spelunking."

   "Sounds dirty."

   "Is there anything that doesn't?"

   "No. Because _life_ is dirty." Faith tries to clear away the cobwebs, rewarded for her efforts when they become more hopelessly entangled in her hair and clothes. "Check it out. If it's an army of mummies, they won't even notice."

   "Mummies I can handle." Willow deflects the Slayer's attempt to rub the detritus off on her own shirt. "Much cleaner than zombies. Also? Highly flammable."

   Faith had been positive that if she didn't get to kill something soon -- or at least kick its ass -- her girlfriend would end up a reluctant but inevitable casualty. Boredom, the less hazardous alternative, set in at a remarkable rate when their homebrew marauder's map began spitting out conflicting signals, leading them on a roundabout snipe hunt through a maze of junctions and switchbacks. More than once they ended up holding hands in the course of navigation, for wholly practical purposes; helping each other down an incline, around a tight squeeze. During those moments the light around them glows more brightly, reflecting off crystalline deposits embedded in the walls.

   "What about now?"

   Willow frowns in concentration at the map. "Dammit!"

   "Sounds like that says it all."

   "It says you're a bad influence. Hey, watch out --"

   "I see it." The Slayer kneels and pokes her head out over the abyss, bringing a chill to Willow's insides as she observes from a safe distance. For someone who's actually flown under her own power, it strikes her as worse than pathetic that she's still afraid of heights.

   "What the hell were they diggin' outta here?" Faith is still surveying the drop. Her absentminded question is the sort that Willow usually interprets as rhetorical.

   "Well, I just started to look up mining data online -- which is all back on my laptop anyway, and limited to what I saved, unless we can find a phone to hook up my modem --"

   "Skip the technoapology?"

   Willow controls her tongue. "Obviously, this place has been shut down a long time. And I hadn't thought yet to go through older records. So unless we see something obvious -- your guess is as good as mine."

   "Right." Faith looks amused as she rises, dusting off her hands. "Well, if you see anything that could make us independently wealthy -- or even buy dinner for a week? Possession is nine tenths of the law."

   "Most of the mines in the state are industrial mineral. Not a lot of gold outside of glacial riverbeds." Willow frowns, puzzled. "You're worried about paying the bills?"

   "I dunno." Faith cranes her neck in a futile effort to glimpse the cavern ceiling, as invisible as the depths of the pit below.

   "Just been thinkin', is all." The Slayer is still avoiding her gaze. "Can't suck off the Council tit forever. Even if it _is_ a tit these days."

   "Me-ow." Willow grins, defusing the lingering tension. "I know what you mean, though. It'd be nice to not have to submit an invoice for everything. Why should we suffer just because some geeky, supposedly reformed villains have _no_ self-control --"

   She falls silent as Faith holds up one hand. The Slayer cocks her head, eyes unfocused, every muscle quivering.

   The next moment she's disappeared down the corridor, shadows dancing in the wake of the light that still emanates from her fleeing form.

   Just once, Willow thinks, as she follows at a saner, slower pace. Just once, she'd like to get a word in.

   Even if it didn't actually change anything.

 

**

 

   "Where's Mizell?"

   "I don't know! I thought you had him --"

   "Quiet down over there --"

   "Everyone _shut up!_"

 

**

 

   The rational part of her knows damn well how annoying it must be. The rest -- the animal hindbrain -- is on cruise control.

   Smears of light flicker from the walls as Faith whipslides down the narrowing tunnel at breakneck speed, every sense on overdrive, all systems go. Ever since she first had to play at being nursemaid, leader, lover, somewhere unmentionably deep within there's been this tiny outraged soccer mom dying to share its opinion when all she wants is to get her Slay on. She often imagines a gravel-voiced, chainsmoking Jiminy Cricket with boobs, alternately cursing and cajoling, with the occasional musical number: _Fools rush in, where angels fear to tread..._

   Is it a death wish? Or just the thrill of the hunt, after all this time?

   She skids to a stop, blood hot in her veins, roaring in her ears. Confusion becomes outrage as she takes in the dead end, a stretch of stark and barren rock over twice her height. As though the giant mole or drill that excavated this far had given up the ghost, laid down and died.

   No. She turns in place, outrage growing. She saw it. Whatever it was --

   Ragged breathing and staggered footsteps from behind warn her of Willow's approach as the redhead appears around the bend, leaning on the side of the tunnel for support, her other hand raised and ready to hurl a spell. Faith is about to give voice to her frustration when the other woman freezes, staring past her.

   Willow takes one step forward, hand still upraised. Faith can feel her entire body tense at the ripple in the air, the almost static charge of power.

   Then the wall disappears.

   They're standing in front of a crude doorway, gouged out of the rock. Beyond is another chamber, so enormous their combined illumination doesn't come close to revealing its extent. But it's enough to realize the shadowy forms shrinking back into the darkness are only a pittance of the room's actual occupancy; two score or more of living bodies, of all manner of shapes and sizes. She can even sense a few vamps, among the ones who look human, and yet there's a familiar face shuffling out of the crowd: The old farmer from the fruit stand, offering a craggy smile as he exposes empty, gnarled hands.

   Faith finds her voice. "What the hell is this?"

   The man gestures behind him.

   "Welcome to the underground."

 

**


	3. frogfarm: Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x04: "Iron Horses" (Act 2)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current music:** |  [Holocaust - Smokin' Valves](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MVYvofGtkF8&fmt=18)  
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_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x04: "Iron Horses" (Act 2)** _

>   
> _I am not one of those weak-spirited, sappy Americans who want to be liked by all the people around them. I don't care if people hate my guts; I assume most of them do. The important question is: What are they in a position to do about it?_  
>  \- William S. Burroughs

 

Cut text from [this](http://www.hd-trailers.net/blog/2008/10/21/let-the-right-one-in-theatrical-trailer/) (lower resolution Flash [in original Swedish](http://twitchfilm.net/site/view/iffr-2008-a-trailer-for-swedish-vampire-flick-let-the-right-one-come-in/) and [English](http://twitchfilm.net/site/view/blood-is-red-and-so-is-the-new-trailer-for-swedish-vampire-flick-let-the-ri/)), which looks totally spooky ninja badass.

 

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/93269.html#cutid1))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/94105.html))

 

 

 

   Usually in these cases, there's a split second of silence before the explosion. Not this time. Before the words have even finished leaving the man's lips, the entire room has erupted in a dizzying mixture of English and guttural, inhuman tongues raised in anger and fear. Faith catches a brief glimpse of the tiny, tentacled figure she'd been chasing, shrinking into the shadows behind a larger version of itself.

   She can feel Willow pressing close beside, the light from their bodies flaring brighter. The old farmer -- or whatever he is -- watches them in silence, ignoring the uproar of protest until it dies back down.

   "Yeah. We're underground." The dryness does little to conceal the edge in Faith's humor. "I can see that."

   "Can you?" His twinkle only increases her irritation.

   "Doesn't really help." Faith gives him the evil eye, keeping the other on the rest of the room, who are busy giving it right back.

   "You could be more specific."

   This helpful suggestion is somewhat offset by her adversary's vague, gentle smile. Faith is also of the growing suspicion that she's being subtly encouraged to jump through someone else's hoops. Never a way to get on her good side.

   Nonetheless, she keeps it in check. For one thing, they're more than a little outnumbered -- like that ever stopped them before. But this is no army: Male, female and other in equal numbers; more than a few in miniature, huddled close to their presumably adult counterparts.

   "And again I ask." She looks around the room, eyes beginning to adjust. "What the hell is this?"

   "Who wants to know?"

   Faith catches a smile before it escapes. For all the rudeness of the actual words, it's hard to remain unaffected by the old coot's sense of good cheer. Might not be able to say the same for his buddies, but she isn't getting any real threat vibe; he's alert yet relaxed, prepared for the worst while hoping to avoid it. And a hardness that she can't help comparing to Jacob, the Amish and former soldier who never spoke a single word even after she'd managed to win his grudging trust and friendship.

   "Faith." She adds a bit of sharp to the edge. "The vampire Slayer."

   That sets off another chain reaction. The guy waits it out, looking mildly annoyed, until the fuss subsides to a dull murmur. Faith regards him with narrowed eyes.

   "You in charge here?"

   "Heavens, no." He starts to put in his hands in his pockets before thinking better of it, hooking both thumbs in his belt loops.

   "Then what are you?" She takes another look around, back at him with renewed interest. "Me, I'm workin'. What's your excuse?"

   "Just doing your job?" The faintest hint of disapproval is apparent in his response. "Well, I can save you some time, because no one here -- vampire or otherwise -- is in need of Slaying. Unless ignorance is now a capital offense, in which case I should think none of us were innocent."

   She looks at Willow. The redhead looks about as lost as Faith herself, only more amused. At least one of them is having a good time.

   "Let me try?" Willow suggests.

   "Go ahead." Faith shrugs and moves aside, feeling the mob's tension grow as Willow steps forward to take her place. She's more than ready to bust heads if anyone blinks. The old man returns the witch's scrutiny with benevolent neutrality, holding up one hand to dissuade an eight foot tall crimson, horned figure sporting leathered wings and cloven hoof.

   "No need."

   The devil grunts, fingers grinding to a fist as it retreats to the far wall. Faith can make out that wall now, a rough hewn semicircle of dull, glistening onyx that appears shinier, more recently dug. The ceiling is about twenty feet up, allowing for taller demons as well as some fliers nesting among the stalactites.

   Willow remains fixated on Old Dude. Who Faith -- contrary to standard practice -- is getting tired of mentally referring to in such generic terms. Though asking for a name would probably be like nailing jelly to a tree. Gotta remember to thank Will for that particular, and oddly disturbing image.

   "You're human." Willow indicates the rest of the room, looking briefly troubled when the murky figures creep, scuttle or just plain inch away from the light of her hand. "They're not. That's --" She fumbles for a moment. "Interesting."

   "In the Chinese sense?"

   "That's actually not an accurate -- sorry." Willow smiles. "Didn't mean to tear off on an academic treatise."

   "I'm familiar with the distinction. But I catch your drift." Their man's good humor remains intact as he begins to pace back and forth. "Don't mind me, just workin' out the stiff. Now you --" He nods at Willow. "Didn't exactly hide the fact that you were coming in here with a Slayer."

   "Huh?" Willow is momentarily flustered. "I -- I didn't mean to _flaunt_ it -- I mean, I don't go around all _ooh, I'm so bad, my girlfriend's the Slayer_ \--"

   "Girlfriend?" The man blinks. Faith watches Willow very carefully, from the corner of one eye.

   "Well...yes. Unless it's a problem. In which case..." Willow folds her arms over her chest. "Double yes."

   The man recovers his equilibrium with admirable aplomb. "I'm sure no one here gives a tinker's damn who you do what with. Though it's not so much your girlfriend as her...profession."

   "What do you know about the Slayer?" Faith interjects. The prickly feeling is returning, that low voltage neon jitterbug creeping up her spine.

   "Which one?" He doesn't quail under her glare, or seem to care in the least. "Been quite a few."

   "_She's the mean one._"

   "Who said that?" Faith snaps, scanning the crowd.

   "When you say _which one_." Willow intercedes before Faith can prove the heckler's point. "You're not talking about the past. You're talking about now."

   "_They're everywhere!_" another voice whimpers. "_Bloody army!_"

   "I had heard a few rumors," the man interjects. Faith has to admit he's got a decent poker face, though it may just be the natural Clint Eastwood effect of the aging process. "Don't put much stock in 'em as a rule."

   Willow's expression is saying a lot, to Faith if no one else. And the Slayer isn't liking one bit of it. She sees that same look every time they pass some homeless dog on a street corner; a stray cat under a porch. Whenever the redhead thinks she's done something wrong. Or wants to make something right.

   "We'd like to stay a few days." Willow sounds perfectly reasonable. Faith's worry kicks up another notch. "Is there anywhere we could rent a room?"

   The man shakes his head with a low chuckle.

   "Suppose you can try."

 

**

 

   He always thought he'd retire somewhere less humid. Arizona, maybe, or Nevada. The desert isn't without its dangers, but the loneliness of such an empty quarter had seemed to him the best place to live out one's days. But she had never known his love for that barren, arid land, the dry winds and frozen nights without a speck of green in sight. For all her love of the cities she left behind, the forest was now her home. Trust her to lash out if she felt it were being invaded.

   "_So you all but gave away the farm._" Her voice crackles through his headset, wearing the full weight of her years. "_Why am I not surprised?_"

   "And what would you have done?" His aching spine and chafing trousers are more easily ignored than the figure standing directly behind him, not quite breathing down his neck. "Defended them into a grave? Perhaps yourself as well, and everyone around?"

   "_I wasn't there,_" she growls. "_You were. I trusted you._"

   "They haven't done anything," he insists. "Why don't you talk to them?"

   "_I'd rather talk to Shay._" Her tired exhalation comes across the nonexistent wire in near perfect stereo, as if she were in the same room. He can hear the pain squirming inside her; the lack of grogginess that says she hasn't taken the pills. "_Put him back on._"

   He hands over the headset without looking, brushing past the younger man and out of the room. The mellifluous, reassuring baritone is already rumbling away as he shuts the door, resisting the sudden urge to slam it.

   "You said we'd be safe." This accusation comes from one of the male werewolf cubs, crouched under a nearby table.

   "I'm not always right." He glances down the hall toward the common area, hearing the faint echo of voices raised in argument. "How bad is it?"

   "My mom thinks we should leave." The boy frowns, scratching at lupine or pubescent hairs sprouting under his chin. "The gargoyle's ready for a fight. Some of the vamps are okay with that."

   "Vampires are not famous for their subtlety." A grimace and wince are his reward as he puts both hands to the small of his back. "Nor, it would seem, are Slayers."

   "Vamps are followers." The boy's dismissive attitude becomes serious. "Will there be war?"

   "Depending who you ask?" He turns away, unable to meet that trusting gaze. "There already is."

 

**

 

   There are times Faith hates being right. Anything that leads to an argument, no matter how cool and dispassionate, certainly more than qualifies, and she saw this one coming a mile off. Willow has obviously argued this particular case before, a suspicion verified when the witch brings up the Chumash rebellion of Sunnydale for comparison.

   "So we saw families. Kids. What are you gonna do?" The ongoing struggle to keep a lid on her infamous pressure is being sorely tested right now. "Interview every single one of 'em? _Pardon me, have you killed any humans lately? Were you thinking of killing, in the near future_ \--"

   "All I said was nobody's getting railroaded." The stubborn set of Willow's jaw is ample warning and testament as to her state of mind. "I don't think that's an unreasonable assurance."

   "Then you totally fail at reassurin' 'em. Unless they really don't like dykes."

   "I'd almost prefer a good old-fashioned lynching." Willow's morose expression borders on comical. "I haven't felt this ignored since high school. I kept checking to make sure I was still visible."

   "You expected a welcome wagon?" Faith stares out the window at the vacant building. The train station is more recently abandoned than the old mines, remnants of gaudy seventies posters fluttering over the empty tracks like racing flags. She wouldn't have picked this location, or even gone along with Willow suggesting it, if not for the nearby river.

   "Besides, that one guy said something."

   "Yeah. I think it was _no parking_." A rustle comes from the seat behind her. "Kinda hard to tell with the door in my face -- okay, try that."

   Faith pushes the reclining lever, leaning back slowly to avoid squashing witchy toes. "Good?"

   "Let's say it's not bad." Willow's on her side facing the front of the car, knees drawn up to her chest, Faith's jacket draped over shivering shoulders. The Slayer frowns.

   "Sure you don't want the sweater?"

   "I'll feel better knowing you're wearing it." Willow's eyes flicker to the window, already misting over from their breath in the tiny enclosed space. "Though I'd feel even better if we slept in shifts."

   "You're the one who thinks we got a diplomatic truce." Faith shut her eyes and cracks her neck, searching for a position that doesn't make her underwear ride up. "Anybody wanted to cramp our style, they could just toss a molly. Stand back, good safe distance -- never see it comin'."

   "Don't make me regret not putting up wards." Willow yawns, muffled by the sound of the seat creaking as she squirms about in her own quest for comfort. "Or a privacy curtain...I could tint the windows --"

   "You _wanna_ screw in the car?" Faith isn't so taken aback as to recognize the improbability of this statement. Despite her wild side, Willow is surprisingly reticent in public. Not so much with displays of affection -- never Faith's own strong suit -- but in terms of anything that might lead to more than that, or even imply it. No matter how discreet.

   "Let's see." Willow's amusement is easily surpassed by the sleepy. "Cramped conditions... potential peepers..."

   She yawns again, trailing off. Faith tries to deflect the pang of guilt. Not worth getting worked up fantasizing about how else they might occupy their time; right now any acrobatics they could get up to honestly wouldn't be worth it and she can't frigging believe she's even thinking those words. Maybe. If it was really an honest offer --

   "You awake?"

   "Huh?" Faith starts in her seat before settling back down. "Nothin'. Go to sleep."

   She drifts into slumber accompanied by naked redheads dancing in the sun, running through fields of grain.

 

**

 

   Calming the twitchier passengers is a more difficult task than usual. Then again, a bit of minor chaos is to be expected, given these unforeseen elements. The only consolation is that his foe is under equal pressure. He's seated on the ground to rest his tired bones, waiting in the shadows when Shay finally emerges from the radio room.

   "Don't think I don't see."

   "What do you think you see?" Shay doesn't look surprised. His reply is utterly without guile, like the man himself. If one could judge a book by its cover.

   "Someone who's in over his head."

   A blip of irritation passes over the younger man's features. "They listen to me because they like what they hear."

   "That's the problem."

   Now Shay deigns to look down, regarding him from on high with that smooth and placid gaze.

   "If you want to accuse me of making love to your wife -- even in the old fashioned sense -- you should be decent enough to say it to my face."

   "I think you're taking shameless advantage of a tired, frustrated woman who's in no position to defend herself. Even if she wanted to." His voice is quiet and without anger. "I think it's absolutely wretched. Beyond contempt."

   "I _am_ telling her what she wants to hear," Shay smiles. "You just don't like that it's true."

   "Your truth." He refuses to budge. "You threaten to destroy everything we've built."

   "You don't see." Shay doesn't raise his voice, but the passion comes through regardless. It's part of his charisma. "You've been here too long. It took new eyes. Fresh blood."

   He hauls himself upright. "And how much more blood will you require?"

   If Shay sounded angry -- if he came across like a madman -- this would be so much easier. Instead he looks weary to the bone, as if both of them were equally ancient.

   "There isn't enough."

   He stares the other man down. "I gave the witch and the Slayer my word they'd not be harmed."

   "If they are?" Shay turns and walks away, his words echoing down the sloping tunnel. "It won't be at my hand."

   "That's good." His smile is bitter with age and wisdom. "That's a good one."

 

**

   Mizell is the youngest of his kind; quite possibly the last, if his family are any prophets. A migratory tribe of omnivores descended from a long and proud warrior lineage -- or so his uncle claimed -- a forked tongue was required to properly pronounce the name of their species, but he's only been capable of speech since last year when his tertiary vocal sacs came in. Their clan had uncharacteristically resided in one location for over a decade, enjoying the concealed salt water hot springs until his mother's legendary caution had blossomed into full-blown hysterical survivalism, prompting a hasty uprooting and transplant.

   His earlier act of rebellion had been driven mainly by curiosity, to gaze upon the Slayer with his own eyes; to behold what so many spoke of hushed whispers and dire tones of portent. Now he creeps through open air, concealed only by darkness, stray wisps of fog. It's the first he's been out of the tunnels since they arrived, but there's no time to enjoy himself.

   He's on a mission.

   Shay had chosen him for size and speed, somehow convinced his mother to allow her one and only larvae to risk life and segmented limb. Perfectly safe. Just reconnaisance, nothing more. Mizell isn't exactly eager to prove himself, but anything is better than endless days underground, waiting for a word that may never come.

   He reaches the vehicle and begins a cautious ascent, cringing at the soft popping every time his suckers release its metal surface, anticipating annihilation at any moment. The witch is curled up in back when he peers inside, her faint snores tickling his sensitive ears. The Slayer reclines in the passenger seat, arms folded over her teats, as still as the grave apart from the rise and fall of her breath.

   Shay said they were dangerous. That they weren't to be trusted, and certainly Mizell finds their appearance anything from startling to outright revolting. But Shay is likewise human, like so many here, and haven't they learned that looks can be deceiving? Everyone seems to trust Shay. Except Uriah, the elder Mizell has come to think of as the town priest, though the man himself would likely scoff at such lofty appellation. Uriah doesn't trust Shay at all; doesn't even like him.

   He looks again at the sleeping women before carefully clambering back down, slipping away into the fog. The others will want to know what he saw, and what is he supposed to say?

   What will they expect to hear?

   Spying is a lot harder than it looks on TV.

 

**

 

   Willow's first thought is that she's freezing -- not literally, but close enough. The source of her discomfort is apparent when she sits up, groggy and foul mouthed, to find the passenger side window cracked a fraction of an inch, admitting the chill air.

   Faith is also missing from the front seat. Serious concern is about to loom large when she spies an enormous arrow on the windshield, pointing toward the river, engraved in condensed moisture on the glass. The scraggly underscoring _F_ is another puzzle before she realizes it's properly oriented, written in reverse from outside.

   "Sorry." The Slayer's voice is audible through the window before the door pops open and Faith climbs in, shutting it with a look of relief. "Woke up and I couldn't breathe. Felt like I was --"

   "Suffocating?" Willow stifles a yawn.

   "Drowning." Faith cracks her neck from side to side. Willow realizes her hair is still damp, nipples readily visible through the thin shirt.

   "Did you actually go for a swim?"

   "Lesser of two evils." The barest hint of devilish smugness. "Don't worry. You get used to it real quick."

   "Oh, _screw_ that." Willow shudders even as she smiles and rubs her eyes, running her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to become fully conscious. "I am _not_ doing it. This episode was badly written..."

   "Hey, at least you got clean underwear."

   "Says the woman who goes commando more often than not." Willow covers her mouth as she yawns, mindful of morning breath. "At least we have that miracle of civilization we call the toothbrush. But geez -- no caffeine, no hot shower _and_ no toothpaste? Triple whammy. I could whip all of it up like that, if --"

   She bites her lip, coming to a halt. Faith turns around, curious and knowing at once.

   "Too easy?"

   "More than that." Willow briefly considers the best ways to sum up before discarding each and every one.

   "In medical school...one of the first rules a doctor learns is _first, do no harm_." She meets the Slayer's gaze head on. "The magick is me, and vice with the versa. I can't change that. So I just...try to use the minimum necessary amount of magic for any given situation. Maybe, ideally...not use it at all?"

   She's expecting some form of mockery, however subtle or affectionate, related to abstinence or pacifism. Instead Faith purses her lips and nods.

   "Like Caine."

   "Huh?"

   "_Kung Fu_?"

   "You too." Willow shakes her head. "Though I suppose that's true -- _the greatest warrior is one who does not need to kill_?"

   "Or a gun," Faith offers. "Better to have it and not need it, than --" She shuts off at the look on Willow's face.

   "Anyway." Willow founders for a suitably safe topic, latching onto a comparatively minor complaint. "You know what bums me out even more than the creature comforts? Or lack thereof?"

   "What's that?" Faith appears intrigued despite herself.

   "Well, because of what it implies. That not a single person -- or demon -- was even willing to let us crash for the night."

   "Uh huh." From the Slayer's expression, Willow is about to finally be sorry for whatever she may have unleashed. "Bummed out? Crash? Who do you think you are, Jack Kerouac?"

   Sorry, and a little surprised. "I'm just saying. Even if it was nothing more than a barn and a haystack."

   Faith rolls her eyes upward. "And now you think you're Jesus?"

   Willow hangs her head with a quiet groan. "Not bad."

   A warm hand finds hers. Willow returns the squeeze without looking.

   "If there was like, anything else buggin' ya? Now'd be the time to get it outta the way."

   "Well..." She considers, trying not to focus on potential subtext. "Since you mention it..."

   Faith might or might not be trying to sound impatient. "Yeah?"

   "I don't want this to sound bad -- which always makes it sound worse than it is, so..." She takes a breath. "It's just the two of us, and that's not bad it's _good_, but -- it's been so long since I had anything like this. No other Slayer, no Scoobies --"

   "Been that way a while." Faith's quiet tone lacks judgment or defensiveness. Willow again chooses her words with the utmost care.

   "It sort of feels...like it's just now sinking in. Practically the whole time I was growing up, it was just me and Xander. And Jesse. But he was always more Xander's friend, and then --" She swallows at the surge of memory, and everything that followed.

   "He died. And then there was Buffy. And for seven years...there were so many more of us. And we were more than a team." She looks back at Faith. "We were family."

   A flare of jealousy flickers and dies in the Slayer's eye.

   "And now you're my family." Willow leans forward, bestowing a brief, respectful kiss on the other woman's forehead before pulling away and taking her hands. "As much as you want to be."

   Faith is silent for a moment before meeting her gaze once more.

   "I want."

   "Well, then." Willow returns the squeeze. "You let me out of here for now, and I promise -- whenever it turns out that we've taken care of business?"

   Faith looks hopefully lecherous. "Business time?"

   "You got it."

   "What are you waitin' for?" Faith hops out, leaving the door ajar. "Sooner you're presentable, we can get this other crap sorted out."

   "I'll keep trying Giles, but we might be too far from any cell towers." Willow crawls from the car, stretching her fists to the sky with a prodigious yawn. "They should be expecting us any time. Uriah said we'd meet at the entrance and take a shortcut --"

   She breaks off, motioning to Faith as she slowly walks toward the rear of the car.

   Both of them stare at the pattern of circular, clearly delinated sucker marks covering the trunk.

 

**

 

   Contrary to first instinct, Faith hadn't made a big deal out of not suggesting they go running in to capture Cthulhu, sixguns a-blazing. Maybe too big a deal. Willow's suspicion or paranoia can occasionally know no bounds. She'd settled for advising strict caution, raising the matter at the first opportunity and reserving the right to bail or Slay.

   "I've got your back." Willow looks suitably resolved, and Faith crosses her mental fingers.

   So far, so good. Their guides -- the old farmer, along with his winged devil buddy -- hadn't even blinked when confronted with photographs of the trail left in the night by their agent. Faith isn't up on the finer points of digital manipulation, but after hearing Willow she'd been prepared for angry refusal on the part of the accused to trust any evidence that could be so trivially faked or tampered with.

   "From the shape and size, that would be Mizell." The man shakes his head, smiling with that annoying secret amusement. "I could speak to him if you like --"

   "We just don't want to be spied on," Willow interjects, modulating her tone to something more politic. "And in return...we won't spy on you. We meet in good faith, like you said." She breathes a sigh of relief at his nod, ignoring the Slayer's barely audible snicker.

   Naturally, Faith doesn't let her guard down. Mostly she sticks close to Willow; uses her sense of direction to get a feel for the route they're taking, how it connects to the one they found last time through. It's a bear sometimes, trying not to predict what might happen, but damned if she's not getting better at it.

   Their other guide is silent all the way until they're at the final dead end, when he utters a monosyllabic grunt that causes the fake wall to shimmer and disappear. Its opener takes up his post with the others within, who are attempting with less success to conceal wary, darting glances.

   "Hi."

   Willow surveys the room with her best nonjudgmental face. This one is always evident by virtue of the dread it tends to evoke in Faith despite its opposite intent. From the mistrustful look of their audience, the Slayer is far from alone.

   "Cliff's Notes?" the redhead continues. "We got off on the wrong foot. Our only interest is to preserve life and to keep the peace. Well -- our only interest as far as you should be concerned. I'm interested in lots of stuff that...hardly anyone else finds of interest," she finishes, on a selfconscious lame note.

   "So?"

   Faith scans the crowd and locates the speaker. Teenage boy; werewolf, by the smell. She wonders if Will senses it too somehow.

   "So we're like Santa Claus." She ignores Willow in case of any disapproval regarding her interruption. "Nobody's innocent. But if you're nice? No problemo. Naughty --" She shrugs, allowing unspoken possibilities to hang in the air.

   Willow plasters on a winning, supportive smile. She doesn't look at Faith as she addresses the demons assembled.

   "Any questions?"

   A grinding of teeth fills the air.

   From out of the crowd flies a darkening silver streak, aimed at the witch's throat.

 

**


	4. frogfarm: Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x04: "Iron Horses" (Act 3)

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[fanfic](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/fanfic), [ftvs](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/tag/ftvs)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x04: "Iron Horses" (Act 3)** _

>   
> _Police are like vampires. They shouldn't be invited into your home... Vampires are polite; they're smooth. But once they get in, the door closes. Havoc ensues._  
>  \- Jamarhl Crawford, Chairman, New Black Panther Party

 

Cryptic? Certainly. Derivative? Oh mais oui. [Asspull](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/AssPull) or [semantics](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/posts.php?discussion=zdpc52re773a6yfapd6eltw0)? And who is that man behind the curtain?

But she's sturdy. Serviceable.

She'll get you where you're going.

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/93269.html#cutid1))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/94105.html))  
([Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/96424.html))

 

 

 

   Every frame is crystal clear; screaming down her synapses in glorious, high-def reality by the flickering light of the makeshift torches that adorn the walls. Faith has been holding the rock for a while, having palmed it unobserved during the descent, and now it screams from her hand at untold miles per hour, impacting square in the side of the attacker's skull. She's already leaping forward as it leaves her grasp, hitting the twitching body full on, breaking its neck before they even hit the ground.

   Then all hell breaks loose.

   She discards the corpse and leaps to her feet, both fists at the ready. Half the room is erupting in a mad stampede for the sole exit, the remainder a great swelling wave that surges forward to surround them both.

   "Hold!"

   Everyone freezes at the sound of the old man's voice, remarkably robust and authoritative for his age. One of the vamps actually has hold of her forearm, his own mouth wide open, teeth bared in a grimace of surprise. Faith bats away the offending appendage.

   "Hold _this_," she snarls, trembling with the effort of containment. "You gonna tell me that was in _any_ way not one hundred percent self defense?"

   The clamor rises anew until Uriah raises one hand.

   "You were defending her."

   "Potayto, potahto." Faith doesn't budge. "Far as I can tell, that thing --"

   "Br'nzeph demon," Willow offers, looking paler than usual. The thing is a gleaming bullet even in death, its slick black fur resembling the coat of a killer seal with a snake's scales.

   "-- attacked her for no good reason. Hell, no reason at all." She lowers the volume again, hyperaware of the seething mass of bodies clustered around them as she and preacher man stare each other down.

   "Will."

   "Yeah?" The redhead still sounds shaky.

   "Your average Brinzip." She nods at the body she left behind on the ground. "How much brainpower we talkin'?"

   "Um --"

   "They're pretty smart." Uriah nudges the corpse with the tip of his boot. "That one weren't too bright."

   "You can say that again," someone mutters from the crowd. The other Br'nzeph are roiling at the fringes, grumbling like relatives at a wedding over whose turn it is to bail out the funny drunken uncle.

   "I think I know what you mean," Willow interjects. "Like, how long-term planny are they? Would they be likely to act on impulse -- or could they go against their instincts, in pursuit of a more abstract goal?"

   Faith pauses, newly aware of a million eyes upon her. "Something like that."

   "Then, according to my source text -- they're supposed to be sentient. Human level." Willow turns to the old man. "Are we in the ballpark?"

   "That's my understanding." Uriah pushes back the black broadbrim hat, rubbing his weathered forehead with an air of sheer exhaustion. Faith ignores the tug of sympathy.

   "So if one attacked you," the Slayer continues. "Which it did --"

   "It had a reason," Willow finishes.

   Uriah nods, turning to the congregation. "Does anyone have a problem with these two leaving unharmed?"

   A chorus of disgruntled and disheartened assent greets his query. The vamp who managed to lay a hand on Faith starts to raise it, rapidly reconsidering when the mountainous devil plants a discreet elbow between his ribs.

   "I'm sorry this went badly again." Uriah gives a vague nod to Faith, but it's clearly Willow he's addressing. The witch's throat bobs as the Br'nzeph fall upon their own, tearing the body to shreds in a cannibalistic frenzy which the rest of the room studiously ignores. "Shall we try something on a less ambitious scale?"

   Willow flinches as one of the Br'nzeph emits a mighty belch. "Such as?"

   "Dinner. Tonight, at my house."

   Faith ignores the miniscule scattered mutters from the peanut gallery. Once again he's taken control; uprooted and moved the goalposts, leaving no room for dissent.

   "You have my word, no one will intentionally try to poison you." Uriah moves to fill the conversational gap with growing ease. "My lovely wife may choose not to join us, but we both know our way around a kitchen."

   Willow gives her a brief, pleading look that screams _feed me_. Possibly _get me out of here_.

   "We'll think about it." The Slayer grabs her companion by the wrist, dragging her out of the chamber before anyone can object.

   "I don't remember the way --"

   "I do." Faith slows her pace, checks to make sure they're not being tailed.

   "Can we at least discuss it?" Willow is plaintive, with a touch of exasperation. "Dinner sounds --"

   "Like a good thing," Faith interrupts. "But we need a plan."

   Willow blinks. "Who are you, and what have you done with Faith?"

   "I'm not kidding. That Brinzep?"

   A frown creases Willow's brow. "Yeah?"

   "Look where the direct approach got him."

   Willow exhales a hearty sigh. "Research?"

   Faith nudges her leftward, down the right path. "Research."

 

**

 

   "I changed my mind." Willow shuts her laptop as gently as possible, given her current foul mood. They're back in their car at the parking lot of the old train station, engaged in a race to decipher everything they can before dinner. "No more research."

   "You're giving up just because you can't get online?" Faith looks appalled. "I thought you stored a bunch of this junk. So you could get to it _offline_."

   "I did! It's just...not --"

   Faith raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Everything?"

   "It's something." Willow groans and cracks the case again, wincing at the ultrahigh frequencies massaging both retina square on. "I'm looking. Honest."

   "Don't stress," Faith warns, sounding stressed. "What _do_ we know?"

   "Well -- I've got a theory. It could be minerals? Some mystic minerals inside the mine and I just don't know what I'm saying I could use some caffeine over here..."

   Faith watches in silence until she runs out of breath. "That do what?"

   "Oh --" Willow pauses to ensure adequate ventilation. _Oxygen before caffeine!_ "It would explain two things. Why our map got all bolloxed up -- like a compass near a magnet. But it looks like it also works as an amplifier."

   The Slayer frowns. "Enough to open a Hellmouth where there ain't one already?"

   "That's the tricky part. It works in reverse." Willow sketches with her hands in the air. "Imagine a black hole. Dead zone for our cell phones, radio, television...maybe short wave would work. Or some sort of quantum -- anyway," she hurries on, in response to Faith's obvious impatience. "It's just a theory."

   "Good as any." Faith shrugs and resumes her stretches. "Tell you what, this is a hoot and a half. An underground frickin' demon railroad?" The Slayer lets out a deep and hearty chuckle. "Who'da thought?"

   "I can think of stranger things."

   "Like?"

   "Like don't distract me with how appealing you can make one single word sound." Willow closes her eyes. "And yes, the calisthenics are also a factor."

   "Friggin' nympho." The rough epithet is delivered with an unmistakable affection. "Stick to the facts. What do we know?"

   "Still no records on those tunnels. At least in the data I've got." Willow leaves her eyes shut, allowing her thoughts to drift, coalesce and collate. "We're having dinner tonight --"

   "If it's still movin', you can have mine."

   "And I don't think we should look at it as an opportunity to grill anybody for answers. Uriah acts like he doesn't want to say anything, but it's like -- he wouldn't mind us figuring stuff out on our own? I don't know, I'm --" Willow can feel her face growing warm. "Not always good with people."

   "Compared to who?"

   "I --" Willow tries to assemble her frustration into something coherent.

  "The demon that attacked me. You called that the direct approach."

   "So now they go for subtle," Faith confirms. "Unless that really was just a lone nut."

   "And if it wasn't -- whoever else we have to worry about is going to be a lot more careful." Willow stifles another groan, pushing her laptop away. "I can _not_ stare at this screen one minute longer."

   "Let's walk." Faith doesn't take no for an answer, half hauling her from the car, locking the door and shoving the keys in Willow's pocket with a brief, passing squeeze. She accepts all of this, remaining silent until they reach the waterline, kneeling in search of stones to skip.

   "And yes. Something else is bugging me."

   Faith hands over a promising candidate. It feels good. Willow measures the distance, weighs it in her hand.

   "If you hadn't been there? I would have been shredded. As in steak and kidney pie." She clutches the smooth, flattened lump in her fingers. "Semi-professionally fighting the forces of evil. That's what I told Lee Anne. But today...when the chips were down, I was --" She can feel the bitterness rising, icy claws taking hold. "A _rank amateur_."

   "We all got bad days." Faith sounds casual, but her concern is evident.

   "You'd think after seven years in a demon war zone, I could do better. I don't have battle reflexes. I have shriek and cower reflexes." Willow manages a smile, struggling for some small bit of humor. "I should be glad I don't have PTSD. Or --"

   She chokes up out of nowhere, thoughts of Xander rushing back. The look she gets from Faith says that the Slayer is ready for maximum waterworks.

   "It's okay." Willow takes a calming breath, draws back her arm and lets it fly, slow and low.

  Three skips.

   Not bad.

   "Do you think we need to go formal?"

   "I think you're gonna fight me for your plate." Faith's grin is devoid of humor. "Even if it's still movin'."

 

**

 

   Faith isn't as bloodthirsty as she makes herself out to be. If anything, the only time she still feels like she's playing a role is when she tries to be nice. Regardless, by the time they climb the steps of Uriah's sprawling homestead and knock on the door her stomach is a lioness roaring in heat, her hunger reaching heights that can honestly be classified as apocalyptic. The taste of the apple Willow bought that first day, out on the front lawn by the road, remains distant and taunting, alongside the memory of gas station jerky. The inevitable price of getting used to regular meals.

   The door opens, and her nostrils likewise flare at the aroma that wafts from inside. Things are looking up. Or smelling.

   "Come in." Uriah beckons, wiping one hand on a tattered apron. His trademark hat is nowhere in sight, the shining dome of his skull rising up through a shock of fringed white hair. His movements are stiff, but there's a spryness previously lacking in his step. Faith takes the initiative in crossing the threshold, ignoring his outstretched hand.

   "Lovely to see you both." He turns instead to Willow, sounding hesitant for the first time. "I hope you're not vegetarian?"

   "Happily omnivorous," Willow assures him. Faith just nods, vowing to look it up later.

   "Got cider, sweet and hard -- nice ale a friend just tapped -- juice, water, coffee..."

   "Coffee!" Willow latches onto this last, only mildly embarrassed by her outburst of enthusiasm. "I mean please. That would be lovely."

   "Get that right on for you." He indicates the doorway leading into the kitchen, lowering his voice as he glances upstairs. "If you'd give me just a moment?"

   "Whaddya think?" Faith settles into a chair, checking out the down-home decor. Apart for the dearth of ceramic figurines, pretty much what she expected.

   "About what?" Willow takes a peek in the pot on the stove, giving an appreciative sniff.

   "His old lady," Faith clarifies. "Think she'll deign to meet with the commoners?"

   "Like you're some great social butterfly." Willow's teasing tone is distracted, her attention drawn to a crocheted mandala hanging on the wall. The resplendent explosion is both subtle and psychedelic, an infinite spectrum of hues captured in its faded threads.

   "That's mine."

   Faith's first impression is that the woman is nowhere near the age of her supposed husband. The cane she carries seems more for show than any true infirmity; her dark, short-cropped hair without a speck of silver, the functional attire of jeans, quilted workshirt and well worn boots suggesting a person who still spends more time on their feet than between the sheets. She could almost be a silent movie star, standing there leaning on her cane, straight out of that vanished era where everything was black and white and shades of grey. But upon closer examination the illusion of strength becomes a carefully constructed facade, her perfect posture a rictus of agony.

   "I knew you couldn't resist." Uriah sounds relieved as he enters, depositing additional cups by each place setting on his way to the counter. The woman gingerly takes a seat at the head of the table, her scowl covering a grimace.

   "Only thing I can't resist is telling you how you screwed it up without me to supervise." She leans back in the chair, holding a smug, disdainful court. "Unless you cheated."

   "Can't cheat a good roux." Uriah holds up one arm, cheerfully displaying an angry red spatter mark on the underside. "Miss Rosenberg -- in deference to your faith, which I know little of and certainly nothing of your own specifically, which is none of my business --"

   "Oh, skip the fine print." The woman grabs a roll from the basket. "Let him go on, we might keel over and starve."

   Faith silently concurs, feeling a flare of discomfort at having to witness these longstanding private greivances. Lover's quarrels are something to be avoided from any angle. To her complete lack of surprise, Uriah takes it in stride.

   "No bacon, no shrimp. _And the swine though he divide the hoof; all that have not fins and scales in the seas and in the rivers_?" He nods to Willow, passing over a sizable bowl made of handthrown stone. "Though some would say it's not gumbo without sausage, so -- venison it is."

   "Thought I smelled that," the woman comments, dishing herself up a heaping portion of potatoes. "You use my last can?"

   Faith's brow wrinkles. "They put deer in cans?"

   "It's a jar." Willow giggles, growing sober. "Um -- homemade can. Jar." She fumbles momentarily before returning her attention to Uriah. "I'm...faithful without being observant? But I appreciate the courtesy."

   Uriah merely accepts this with a taciturn nod. Faith appreciates that he doesn't play the crazed salaryman, try to turn it into some endless pissing match of one-upmanship. Also that he and his spouse don't stand much on ceremony. For all her own live and let live style, she's not sure she can handle having to say grace twice in one year.

   "This is excellent," Willow mumbles around a mouthful of stew, dabbing smudges of gravy from blushing cheeks. "Sorry -- don't mean to make a pig of myself. Especially with the being Jewish."

   "What she said." Faith raises her waterglass. "Except that last part."

   "Thank you for inviting us," Willow continues, in a more serious vein. "It means a lot. Not just for the food. I wouldn't want to be any trouble for you guys --"

   "He always did have a soft spot for strays." The woman's sarcasm veers perilously close to affection.

   Willow looks over at their reluctant hostess. "Have you been together long?"

   The distaff smirks. "Long enough."

   "I got a better one." Faith's managed to scarf down most of the bowl without attracting attention or making a mess. Her big mouth might get them eighty-sixed, but at least she got to fill it up first. "How do you know about Slayers when most folks shut down at _vampire_? Not to mention everything else we saw in there."

   She ignores Willow's silent distress. Ostensibly, she's watching Uriah, waiting for his response. But nearly all her attention is in the other direction, every sense on hair trigger. If either of these two is likely to explode, her money's on the chick.

   "You might have guessed this isn't your average town." Uriah takes a sip of cider, smacking his lips in appreciation. "Most of us like to think of it as part of its charm."

   "You sayin' everyone here's hip to the way things really are? That monsters and magic are for real?"

   "What makes a monster?" Uriah's distaste isn't from overtart apples. "I've met my share of men who deserved the name. _And_ women."

   "What's in a name?" His wife or lover chuckles, bringing a sharp glance from Faith. "What someone 'is' --" The older woman holds up her hands in a peace sign or Nixonian victory, fingers wiggling to indicate scare quotes. "Just another label."

   Willow cocks her head. "The map is not the territory?"

   "Any one of us might answer to a thousand different words or more." The woman isn't looking at either one of them, as she and her old man do the embarrassing gazing thing. "But no matter how many...we are more than the sum of the parts."

   Faith drops her spoon back in the bowl with a resounding clank. "Enough with the Zen riddles, Master Po."

   Uriah looks puzzled, even as the woman throws back her head for a borderline cackle.

   "I do believe she's calling me blind."

   Actually, Faith wasn't. It's good enough she'll take the credit, though.

   "You guys have a pretty sweet deal, from what I can tell. Wouldn't want anyone rockin' the boat."

   The woman tosses her head in the haughty gesture of someone with much longer hair. "You know who else is blind?"

   Faith pretends to care. "Stevie Wonder?"

   "Justice."

   Willow is glancing back and forth between them, her discomfiture threatening to spiral out of control, when her gaze is drawn to the adjoining room. Faith follows her girlfriend's line of sight, quickly discovering the source of her rapture: A literal wall of books, the likes of which is both a nerd's wet dream and rarely, if ever, encountered outside of a Council library.

   "Wow." The redhead's eyes are huge as she drinks in this minor wonder of the world. "Have you read all of those?"

   "I have." The gruff response gives little away, but Faith thinks there's something positive, however reluctant. Like anyone who loves books can't be all bad. Still, she can't let it go.

   "So you got demons coming and going." She looks straight at the older woman. "Where they goin'?"

   "I don't ask." The woman's response is equally pointed, an undercurrent of growing impatience.

   "They stick around?" Faith hazards. "Blend in, settle down...pump out a litter full of squidlets?"

   "Actually, it used to be more demons, back in the day." Uriah's interjection is less smooth this time. "The balance has shifted over the years. I'd say about even these days --"

   "That's enough." The chilly interruption belies the fire in the woman's words.

   "You think this will hurt us?" Uriah returns her stare unblinking. "I disagree."

   She ignores him, leaning forward, fixing her gaze on Faith.

   "Dig all you want. You'll find no heads to cut off here."

   Willow opens her mouth, stopping at the flash of pain in the other woman's eyes.

   "Now be about your business and be gone."

 

**

 

   She tunes out the sound of hasty apologies, the chill air creeping down the hall as he hustles them out the door. She's in for it now.

   They both are.

   "You couldn't be civil for one night?" Disapproval radiates off him like a dying sun.

   "I gave as good as I got." The nourishing warmth in her belly is already sour, its only palliative the buffer it puts between her and the painkillers. "I won't be questioned in my home. Not by her. Not by anyone."

   "I haven't asked," he says softly.

   "No," she agrees. "And I'd thank you for that kindness --"

   "-- if you didn't know I was about to."

   "And if I answer. will you want to hear?"

   "You can't love him." Uriah's certainty is shot through with desperation.

   "No." She lets it linger in the air. "Maybe...the idea he represents."

   "Revenge?" His voice is full of sorrow. "Death?"

   "Maybe I'm just tired of hiding." She rises to her feet, gritting her teeth as she pushes past him. "Maybe it's time to go out in a blaze of glory. Know I'm leaving the world a better place."

   "Are you?"

   She whirls about, a single bony finger stabbing toward him. "I gave up everything for you --"

   "You gave it up for yourself," he insists. "Because your love had turned to hate."

   "Because I loved _you!_ And now look at you! Look at us --" She nearly breaks down, gathering her strength and anger. "Damn it, you shouldn't have to run and hide! You were meant to fly --"

   He doesn't follow as she turns and hobbles away, half blinded by tears. Seeing those two, young and in love, has only made it worse.

   She's doing the right thing.

   She has to believe.

 

**

 

   "Can you believe that?"

   "Which?" Willow settles into the back seat, arranging Faith's jacket around her for warmth.

   "Dude let her tapdance all over him." The Slayer makes no attempt to conceal her blatant distaste. "She's gotta have some major kinda mojo, him bein' that whipped. Tell you what, I ever _stop_ complainin', you can send me off to the -- what's this?"

   "You tell me." Willow flips on the overhead light. "But Mister Major Whipped back there slipped it into my hands. When he was giving us the big heave ho."

   The _Enthusiastic Amateur's History of Railroad_ is slim in size, barely over a hundred pages, but crammed to bursting with a love for its subject that shines through on every one. The photograph on the dust jacket is clearly Uriah's wife, the caption bearing the improbably noir _nom de guerre_ of Lelou Lang; the woman herself in an aviator's outfit, one foot propped atop an old crate, a mighty steam engine in the background as she directs a majestic gaze over the reader's left shoulder. The inscription inside the front seems to be English, but Willow's had easier times translating dead languages than this bit of scribble.

   "Got me." Faith hands it back with a shrug. "What about a signal outta here? Any luck with the cone of silence?"

   "Yes, actually." Willow is relieved to be back on more solid ground. "I might not have figured it out as fast if it weren't for my little adventure in cyberspace a few weeks ago, but -- I _can_ get through the firewall. I'm just not going to."

   Faith twists around in her seat. "How come?"

   "We're talking about quantum tunneling." Willow searches for a jargon free summation. "The people around here probably use it themselves to send messages. I could call Giles right now, or even get online. But I'd rather wait and make sure we don't get noticed in the process."

   "Makes you wonder if they set it up this way," Faith observes. "You know, block calls on purpose? Or is it just takin' advantage of what comes natural?"

   "Until now, I would have said it was a happy accident." Willow opens her laptop and punches up recent documents. "But I extrapolated some more of the tunnels from that map you drew. It looks like they were deliberately excavated in the form of mystical symbols."

   Faith stares at the jumble onscreen, attempting to puzzle it out. "Goat's head soup?"

   "Nothing so trite or obvious."

   "Hey, it's not trendy. A classic never goes out of style."

   "If I can just figure out which way is up..." The book slides from her pocket as Willow shifts position, tumbling to the floor before she can grab on. She gingerly retrieves it, cringing when something falls out. "Fudgesicle! I was being so careful --"

   Faith holds up the piece of paper. "Doesn't look like factory equipment."

   "Phew. I mean -- darn!"

   Faith's bemusement is apparent. "You wanna pull some pages out, be my guest."

   "No, I mean -- what if that was a bookmark?"

   "Right," Faith nods, catching on. "Woulda been nice to know what it was marking. Oh well." She shrugs. "Let's have a look see."

   The single sheet is brittle with age, brown along the edges. The Slayer unfolds it as carefully as possible, disappointment etched on her face as its contents come to light: A yellowed, mimeographed flyer advertising -- of all things -- a neighborhood yard sale.

   "Wait." Willow points to the bottom of the page, and Faith reads along with her:

   "..._all day, at the old City Hall_."

   She squints at the fine print. Faith provides the dry, helpful postscript:

   "_Bring your own barbecue_."

 

**

 

   Her serendipitous paranoia is only further fueled when their destination is a mere stone's throw from the train station where they've set up camp. Stark and simple, the largest on a sparsely populated block, a brass plaque by the front door denotes it as the first permanent structure in the incorporated township of Grand Arcadia. Apart from a certain souled vamp, Faith has never been comfortable with anything old enough to have history, and this place has it by the truckload.

   Her increasing trepidation is far from appeased once they're inside. The living light that Willow conjures from their bodies, a blessing in those damp and subterranean tunnels, transforms the monastic interior of the building into a veritable tomb. The architecture is straight out of Deadwood, the sort of generic, idealized form that could serve equally as bank, church or saloon.

   "What are we lookin' for?"

   "It's like porn." Willow pulls open a filing cabinet, dumping its contents on the floor. "We'll know it when we see it."

   "Except it won't be as much fun. Oh, look -- mold."

   "It's good for you," comes the absent reply. "Builds up your immune system."

   Faith doesn't bother to return the banter. Either Willow's reading her, or the witch is also picking up on whatever it is that has her spooked. She points toward the ceiling, shining her light into the corners, frowning at the faint but unmistakable sight of decades-old scorch marks.

   "That's weird." Willow looks around, stymied. "Where does it start -- hang on..."

   "I meant what I said." Faith watches her jiggle the knob. "Time comes and I'm too screwed up -- I need to know you can do whatever it takes. Lemme get that --"

   "What are you talking about?" Willow stands back, confusion turning to suspicion. "Is this another case of me not wanting to -- yes, very impressive." She waves her hand before her face, wrinkling her nose at the dust raised from Faith kicking down the door.

   "Direct approach." Faith moves in first, checking out the adjoining room. More of a broom closet; a cramped affair to rival Clouseau's bathroom suite. The shelves along one side are stripped bare, the other a blank slate of plain, unadorned timber.

   "Hold on." Willow runs her hand over the wall. "I'm getting better at this..."

   "Hidden door?" Faith's skepticism is inevitable, but understandable. Her girlfriend's expertise in all things magic and electronic is notoriously inextensible to matters of a more mechanical nature. In fact, without her morning coffee, Willow's approach to her own cell phone can be charitably termed Neanderthal. But all doubt disappears at the sound of a subdued click from within, before the section of wall rolls away to reveal a darkened stairway leading down.

   What a surprise.

   She returns Willow's fist bump before taking point again. The cobwebs and mildew are refreshing in their absence, but the stairs are smooth, slippery stone, not cobbled together from dead and dismembered trees. Even the combined light of their bodies is swallowed by the gloom, a flickering candle in the fan of a deep freeze. The door at the bottom is massive, wood and iron in near equal proportions.

   "This must be the place." Willow's voice fractures into echoes before vanishing away. Faith is all set to tear the witch a new one, but the obvious contradiction and hypocrisy keeps her quiet.

   She reaches out to poke the door, about to crack wise about the fine art of lockpicking, when it swings open at her touch, as if on oiled hinges. With a look at Willow, she steps inside, ready for anything.

   The room is larger than the one they came from, but feels tinier for being crammed full. Except these aren't your grandma's knickknacks. Unless Grandma was a Watcher, and a more evil one than usual. Skulls and knives figure most predominantly, along with less sinister artifacts. Although the size of the feathers alone is enough to classify them as endangered or extinct. As if the evidence weren't damning enough, a primitive altar is carved into the far wall.

   "Jackpot," Willow murmurs. She steps forward, hand upraised, when Faith's own shoots out and grabs her by the shoulder. "Ow! Hey, I'm not --"

   She falls silent, following the Slayer's gaze. The black stains look as old as the building, almost part of the rock. A crude blade -- a single piece of the same stone walls that surround them -- is thrust through a crumbling sheet of parchment, pinning it to the altar.

   "I've seen that kind of knife." Faith burns just thinking about it. "Angelus used it. Killed something that kicked my ass worse than Caleb --"

   She freezes, her mind going blank.

   "Faith!"

   She points at the altar, unable to speak. Willow bends down, holding her glowing hand above the paper, squinting to make out the text.

   "..._do hereby for the benefit of all named parties, invest the township with all due and necessary blah de blah, do hereby set my hand_ \-- what --"

   The witch breaks off in a hiss. As one they stare at the flowing, faded copperplate; the signature that dwarfs the others in size, its exquisite loops and curves in righteous harmony with the confidence of its author:

   "..._Richard Wilkins_."

 

**

 

   "Thank you for telling me." He quashes the vestigial remnants of fear. "No, thank you -- for _everything_."

   "_You'll need to move fast_." Her voice is weaker. "_Won't be easy with that many_."

   "Don't you worry." Shay promises himself that when this is over -- if either of them is still alive -- he'll be the one to bring her peace. Assuming it hasn't already happened one way or another. "I'll get 'em where they're goin'."

   He doesn't tell her it's straight to hell.

   "You remember me," he insists. Is he actually tearing up? Believing his own act? "I couldn't have done it without you. Trusting me...making me part of the team -- I could never --"

   "_You could never what?_"

   He pauses at the male voice on the other end.

   "Put her back on."

   "_She's dying_." Cold and quiet anger reaches through the quant, into his headphones, wrapping its fingers around his throat. Shay rubs his neck in unconscious acknowledgement.

   "Then you'd best see to her."

   "_What have you done?_" No more is Uriah the broken, frail ancient who stood so long in their way. If this seasoned warrior had been the one to oppose him, all Shay's plans would have died in the womb. He'd still be fomenting minor uprisings; discreetly sniffing out the like-minded for support at some nebulous future time. But now, that day is here.

   "You know the answer." His tongue is thick in his throat, an unearthly calm settling over him. "It's not enough to hide. To escape capture, no better than animals."

   "_I know about the weapons._"

   "But not the greatest one?"

   That gives Uriah pause. "_You're bluffing._"

   "Love." Shay smiles, for a moment once more the misty-eyed youth. "The power of sacrifice."

   "_What have you done?_" Uriah's growing desperate. Shay can imagine him sitting there in the bedroom, holding her hand, gripping the quant like a blade.

   "Sped up the plan."

   He disconnects, heart racing. In an ideal world he'd be there as well, right by her side for those final moments. But who knows what will happen when the change comes? _I am the Resurrection, and the Life..._

   "Shay?" The slight lisp from his forked tongue gives Mizell away, as does the black and blue spotted head poking down from the ceiling. "I can't find anyone."

   "They're already on board." Shay's urgency requires no deception. "No time to lose. Give me a hand with this --"

   If the young one heard their conversation, he gives no sign. Tentacles ooze out of the shadows, and Mizell is in the process of transferring his weight to the lower set when Shay grabs him by the middle, one hand wrapped in a cloth bag. The squawk of surprise becomes a series of staccato shrieks, the tentacles a seething, scrambling ball. Shay howls as the burning acid eats circles through the bag, into his flesh, pulling the knife from his belt and slicing off the nearest flailing, suckered limb.

  The keening threatens to burst his eardrums, but he manages to turn the bag inside out, tie the knot with bloody trembling fingers; stumbling out the door, clutching the squirming cargo to his chest like his own precious newborn. Mizell doesn't stop making noise all the way to the station, the whole time he's being tied up, before Shay throws him into the car with the rest. The boy's eyeslits go wide at the sight of his family, chained up alongside vampires, werewolves and the rest.

   "Everything in place?"

   "Every last one." The other man shakes his head. "Can't wait to be rid of those freaks..."

   The words end in a wet moan as he and his rifle hit the ground. Shay tosses the rock to one side, dragging his former comrade into the boxcar, securing the body with the last of the chains.

   "First against the wall," he giggles. "Mohammed's going to the mountain. Yes sir..."

   He swings up into the cab, setting the controls one last time. The engine huffs and groans, and Shay jumps out as it begins to move, picking up speed; watches it pull out of the station, a rough beast come to life, as he hums a tuneless ditty:

   "_She'll be comin' round the mountain when she comes..._"

 

**


	5. frogfarm: Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x04: "Iron Horses" (conclusion)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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_ **Faith the Vampire Slayer 1x04: "Iron Horses" (conclusion)** _

>   
> _"If elected mayor, my first act will be to kill the whole lot of you, and burn your town to cinders!"_  
>  \- Groundskeeper Willie

 

Ended up "explaining" a bit less than planned. But I like the mystery, and it wouldn't need much more to make it work onscreen (IMO).

Action! Adventure! Romance! If you're not too discerning, you'll find them all, in this week's exciting conclusion of...

...wait, what's this show called again?

 

([teaser](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/93269.html#cutid1))  
([Act 1](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/94105.html))  
([Act 2](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/96424.html))  
([Act 3](http://frogfarm.livejournal.com/97258.html))

 

 

   _Grand Arcadia City Hall, 1878_

 

   "Obviously, I can't stress enough that we avoid a repeat of last summer's unpleasantness up Martinsburg way. Neither of us could afford the exposure if the militia were called out again. And as rational men of business, we both recognize that no venture is without risk."

   Richard can always tell when he's losing his audience. The president of the firm is an up and coming eastern dude of impeccable grooming, far too self-possessed to do anything so gauche as yawn in front of his two flanking assistants in their identical, perfectly starched suits. Also, the man is not bored, but high strung. Even now, seconds from completing their contract, his expression is that of a man signing his own death warrant.

   "But I have confidence in you." The smile is completely unnecessary, but more practice never hurt. Neither did a positive attitude. "In our partnership...in its potential for growth. And in your consortium's ability to keep our work force motivated."

   "The old guard are not enamored of the competition." The dude frowns at a stray hair that dared escape its pomade prison, brushing it from his shoulder with a flick of disgust. "Especially when it wears scales and fur, and talks more than a parrot. Or a wife."

   "Well, that's one of the advantages of slave labor. They don't get a choice about who they work with." He can't help the jolly chuckle. "Or anything else."

   "And when it opens -- you're sure these things won't join forces with whatever's on the other side?"

   "When it opens, we'll be gods. And they won't have to worry about a thing." Richard beams, a smile fit to split his face in two. "Because they'll all be dead."

 

**

 

   Except it didn't work out that way. There was a beautiful partnership, all right -- between the human and demon slaves, who rebelled against the overseers and private security forces, killing or running off every last one. The president and his assistants met with deaths that were appropriately ironic, fantastically grotesque, and mercifully brief. As for Richard Wilkins, he abandoned the project and fled for greener pastures, arriving two years later in California.

   "So he skipped town before they ran him up the flagpole." The Slayer shakes her head in admiration.

   "Trying to read over here?" Willow frowns at the parchment. A good chunk in the middle is destroyed or obscured thanks to the presence of the stone blade; more still by the revolutionary graffiti scribbled over the top in Goddess only knows what sort of fluids. Whatever magicks originally bound by this document have conspired to keep it intact, even well preserved. But as she'd cautioned Faith, she would no more pull the knife from that altar than the pin on a live grenade. Not without more preparation than they can spare.

   "Sorry," Faith says, in that infinitely meaningful way. "Anything else?"

   "Just a lot of worker's uprising, revolution of the lumpenproletariat kind of stuff...actually a lot of different handwriting. It's like a declaration of independence. If the founding fathers were a bunch of hopped up, half-crazed ex-slaves with mad tagging skills." Willow grins. "Or if ancient Rome had aerosol cans? They could have written _Socrates is boring_ in three-dee -- right. Not the time."

   Faith holds her tongue this time, but Willow can feel the tension mounting. Or she's just imagining it. Regardless, she feels the need to multitask, in trains of thought if nothing else.

   "But except for the caves where they were hiding people -- demons," she corrects herself, before Faith can. "We didn't see any recent activity in those mines. They must have lain dormant this whole time. Over a hundred years." She trails off, thoughts tickling the back of her mind. "Untapped..."

   She reaches for her laptop before remembering it's still in the car. Her mind races with the urge to reach out and coax the machine from hibernation, caress and connect with it in ways few others can fathom.

   Instead she focuses on skimming the text before her, trying to reconstruct the pattern from memory. There was that main set of interlocking symbols, and the frustrating realization that it didn't _go_ anywhere; everything pointing to an exit that wasn't there. Some crucial piece of the puzzle, tantalizing in its absence...

   "Speed!" Willow blurts out. "No. Strike that. Reverse it..."

   "Should hope so." A quiet but unmistakable snort from Faith. "You're tweaked enough on coffee."

   "It was right there -- yes!" Willow almost pounds the altar with a triumphant fist, stopping herself at the last. "Acceleration!"

   "You mean that other thing you never do?"

   "It's the missing part of the equation. Part of it --" Willow forces herself to slow the flow of words before they tumble all over each other, spill onto the ground.

   "Something has to enter the mine to release all that stored energy. Not just at a minimum speed, but while _increasing_ its speed." Her brain whirls and wobbles, one hand tracing an invisible line. "So working in reverse, it would extend back out from there -- up to..."

   "...the train station?" Faith looks at her with dawning realization. "The one we're a _block away from?_"

   "But it still needs something else --" Willow's desperation is barely sufficient to keep the Slayer from bolting straight up the stairs. "I don't remember! If I had my notebook --"

   "Quit using the machine!" Faith nearly shouts. "Use your head! Who are we talkin' about? What does he --"

   "Oh." Willow can feel her eyes and brain expand as the implications sink in.

   Faith swallows, forcing herself not to yell. "What?"

   "Living sacrifice." Willow balks at the numbers, imagining the inevitable. "And lots of it."

   Faith's dumbfounded expression slowly fades to quiet, burning anger. She opens her mouth.

   A whistle blows, long and loud. No feeble emission of living lungs; the powerful scream of steam under pressure.

   A rumble fills the air.

 

**

 

   Since she first set foot in California, Faith has been through her share of earthquakes -- most of which weren't even of mystical origin. She knows perfectly well the building isn't collapsing around them; that the floor is very much failing to open and swallow them whole. And yet Willow's analogy rings in her mind as they break all land speed records getting the hell out of there. If the train is a shell, then any unwilling passengers are the powder. Together, they're a magic bullet.

   Aimed at a mountain of nitro.

   She can see it as they emerge from the building, even down the street. The rusting hulk is already moving faster than she would have guessed, but appearances are again deceiving. From the sound of it, some enterprising souls have souped it up under the hood, thrown in a modern supercharger. Faith puts all her her effort into keeping up, hoping to overtake it. Seems the thing to do, until something proves otherwise.

   The sound of Willow behind, gasping for air, quickly fades before the pounding of her feet on the ground, the blood in her ears. Slayer sight sharpens as she approaches the station; a small group of what look like men, gathered on the platform: One with long hair, two more without, all bearing black rifles...

   The longhair spots her, raising his gun with a shout. She's on the verge of reaction when she remembers Willow. Back there, in the line of fire --

   Long Hair hesitates as the other two pull their own weapons. Then he turns and grabs on, jumping aboard before the train can move beyond his reach.

   Faith pours it on double, ready to duck and cover when the remaining men let out simultaneous screams, throwing away their guns and shaking their hands, doing a little dance. The smell of fried meat hits her just as she does them, plowing into one and smacking him in the jaw, laying him out prone cold. The other grabs her arms and she nails him with a headbutt, turning without a second glance and making a run for it; doesn't spare the breath to yell, praying inside: _Come on Will_ \--

   Onto the boxcar, grabbing the rail, she risks another backward glance. Willow has just managed to catch the tail end of the last car, hauling herself on board as their speed approaches something like unsafety. Then it's no longer ambiguous. Faith pulls and scrambles her way atop the swaying hunk of metal, ignoring the clutching hands that reach from within, the anguished cries of their owners.

   Hanging on for dear life, she begins to crawl.

 

**

 

   Red streaks split the sky at its horizon, landscape rushing by beneath her feet as the jagged mountain range looms in the distance. Willow ignores the increasing blurriness of the ground below, holding on with all her might as she tries to force open the door. For a moment she thinks it must be locked, that she'll have to resort to another spell before she loses her grip. Sympathetic pain throbs between her eyes, the result of paying the price in full up front, absorbing the agony of both men from the suddenly superheated metal; minimum second degree burns she can still feel in her own flesh but her hands are clean, not a mark on them --

   Then whatever's stuck gives way. Encouraged, she aims a wobbly kick at the now partially open door. The train is still accelerating, throwing her further off balance, and Willow can make out another sound under the engine's roar, the clash and clicking wheels that make it worse than the infamous and oft-closed for repairs Yukon Gold Mine ride at Cedar Mountain. The now familiar sound of that chorus of voices, raised in fear.

   How many on board?

   What kind of power will that unleash?

   "Ack!" Willow almost lets go as a pair of feet appear from above, the rest of Faith close behind.

   "Move --"

   "That's your solution to _everything_ \--"

   "Damn straight," Faith concludes as her boot meets steel, sending the door flying off its hinges. Willow grabs the extended hand, taking the Slayer's advice to heart as they crawl over the wreckage into an empty cargo hold.

   "Almost lost my phone!" Willow holds it up with a proud, shakey grin. Faith gives her another of Those looks.

   "GPS!" She has to shout to make her explanation heard. "My laptop's got it too, but I don't have my laptop! But I think right now, being noticed is the least of our problems --"

   "Do what you gotta do!" Faith looks around and spies a metal support pipe on the back of a chair, grabbing on and wrenching it free, holding it like a bat as she moves toward the inner door.

   Willow looks down at her phone, and the touchscreen springs to life. _Strict locality_, she reminds herself. Including anything more than this device -- say, the people around it -- could lead to stream-crossy levels of unpleasantness. But inside her newly formed Klein bubble, the larger one around it cancels out. Ergo presto: One cell phone stops being confused, and operates like it should.

   "What's up?"

   "You were expecting good news?" Willow shows her the screen, struggling to hold it steady. "Those mines that took us hours to get to on foot? The tracks run straight all the way -- at this rate, we'll be there in less than twenty minutes! And that old entrance --"

   "Closed off!"

   "Oh good! I was hoping I wasn't the only one who remembered that --"

   "Come on!" Faith's on the move, trying her hand at the door. This one doesn't budge, and the Slayer draws back, shattering the glass with her impromptu weapon.

   A blur flies through the freshly created hole that Faith avoids by a hair's breadth. Willow catches a brief glimpse as it settles into a snarling, coiled mass. This Br'nzeph is older, more heavily muscled than the one that attacked her in the caves, its black fur mottled with white spots.

   "You sshall not passs!"

   "Who do you think you are, Gandalf?" Willow tries not to be amazed at the comprehensibility of the thing's English, heavy accent and drool aside. "Now look. You don't want to kill me --"

   The beast gets a weird expression on its face.

   "Oh," Willow realizes. "You _don't_ want to kill me..."

   Faith takes a step toward the door, freezing when the Br'nzeph roars a challenge, shifting into attack posture.

   "...and you don't want us stopping this train," Willow sighs. "That doesn't bode well --"

   The pipe leaves Faith's hand, hurled like a javelin, impaling the startled Br'nzeph through the chest and pinning it to the wall. The Slayer flashes a grin more toothy than the demon she just dispatched.

   "No ticket."

   "I can't take you anywhere -- look out!"

   Faith turns to see a vamp in full game face crash through the door, wrapping his arms around her, lifting her off of the floor in a savage hug. The howls and screeches from the next car have reached a crescendo as more of the prisoners regain full consciousness, adding to the din.

   Willow grabs the pipe embedded in the Br'nzeph and gives a hearty tug, grimacing at the resultant twitching and bodily fluids as she works the length of metal free of its fleshy prison. Faith's headbutts are barely keeping the vampire's fangs at bay as Willow darts around behind them, swinging with all her strength at the back of his knees. The vamp staggers, and Faith uses inertia to swing them around, breaking his hold, planting one foot in the center of his chest and sending him out the ruined rear doorway. Her victim hits the tracks and bounces once, twice, then bursts into flames, his agonized scream sucked away by the wind before anyone can hear.

   "Jane!" Willow slaps the pipe into the Slayer's waiting hand, pointing toward the front. "Stop this crazy thing!"

   "Can't you bamf up there?"

   "Trying not to lose my dinner --" Willow grabs a nearby seat as the train lurches like a bucking bronco. "I can barely stand up! No way I could take you along without risking us going all Jeff Goldblum! And I'm not leaving you --"

   "So we stick together! Hold on --" Faith keeps her eye on the far door, waiting for the other woman's fingers to hook into her belt loops before inching forward. As for Willow, she focuses on staying upright, sending a silent prayer to the Goddess. Just once, it would be nice to prevent a disaster without having to sweat the details.

   But she can't stop her overactive brain from speculating.

   What _would_ all that energy do?

 

**

 

   "I didn't plan for you to find me like this."

   He ignores her, picks her up like she was nothing. The empty bottle tumbles from her hand, rolling away on the floor as he carries her over to the bed.

   "I had a note," she continues. "All written out in my head..."

   "Did you?" There's a new tremor to his grizzled voice.

   "Damn hands can't hold a pen." And he knows that perfectly well. She needs to tell him something new, but her thoughts just won't come together. "I should have been found with a pen in my hand. Or at the typewriter...damn keyboard just isn't the same --"

   "Don't talk."

   She almost laughs. "You always told me I talked too much. And now it's your mouth that's gone and caused all this trouble." A wistful sigh, that skirts her innate sense of melodrama with perilous intimacy. "And I told you...see what happens when you get involved?"

   "I'll get the doc --"

   "It's too late."

   "I know." He bows his head. "Spread too far."

   For a moment, the old sense of righteous rage. "I told that quack not to breathe a word --"

   "And I convinced him it was in his interest, if he wanted to draw another breath."

   "You'd never," she teases. "Soft hearted."

   His eyes narrow. "Don't ever try to predict what I would do for you."

   "I know." Tears well in her own. "The price you paid..."

   "It was worth it," he replies, deadpan. "Torturing you all these years."

   "Bastard!" Her smile turns to a grimace. "You aren't but nothing next to this pain. And all the pills in the world won't put a dent in it."

   "How many?"

   "Enough to take the coward's way out." She tries to look away, but her coordination's failing. He reaches out, cupping the nape of her neck to hold her steady.

   "I went to the mines." He sounds more forceful, stretched on a precipice over the abyss. "They're gone. Every last one. Two days ahead of schedule."

   "Talking business in my final hour? How gauche."

   He won't let go; of her eyes or anything else. "You washed your hands of that business. After you helped create it."

   "You thought you could do better." Will their final moments together be at each other's throats? "You thought you could _bargain_ with a gun to your head --"

   "_What is he trying to do?_"

   "He said it would open a door!" She coughs, clutching her stomach. "Give them all somewhere to go. Someplace safe."

   "And to think you used to scoff at the idea of magic." He shakes his head sadly. "And there was a time you would have seen right through an empty man like him."

   "You think he lied?" For the first time in forever, doubt and fear. Not of her own mortality, but of the man in whom she put her trust.

   "I know he did!" Uriah's impotent frustration rings from every pore. "I just don't know why..."

   "If you really think they're in danger...you can save them." She sees it on his face; that he knows precisely where she's taking this. "Save _yourself_."

   "And go on without you?" He doesn't look at her as he sits beside her, takes her aching hand in his. "After you promised?"

   "Dying together is romantic." She fights the urge to close her eyes. "And it's stupid."

   He hesitates, and she grips his fingers with all her strength, ignoring the distant pain.

   "Don't you let me go without seeing your face again."

   He looks up, meeting her gaze. Cold indigo boils down his arm from the joining of their hands; an all-consuming wave that burns away the aged mask, leaving only a fiery winged being staring down at her.

   "My beautiful man..."

   Indescribable love fills her eyes, as they close for the last time.

 

**

 

   The death car is filled to capacity, its prisoners thrashing in their chains like cattle on the verge of stampeding. Sounds like a regular three ring circus, a barnyard squabble and a prison riot all in one. The would be passengers are guarded by a vampire, a Br'nzeph, and some demon Faith doesn't recognize.

   All three are also armed, a fact driven home when the Br'nzeph takes a shot at her head poking inside. The Slayer ducks back as the bullet takes a chunk out of the doorway.

   "You moron!" the vamp howls. "She's five feet away! How the hell could you miss?"

   "It'ss thesse clawss," the Br'nzeph hisses. "Thesse human weaponss are usselesss!"

   "Watch and learn," the vamp snarls. Faith looks back around to see him go into game face, stand up and start to indiscriminately blast at the door and nearby walls, causing the chaos and fear to reach new heights. She beats a hasty strategic retreat as he continues to lay down fire, exulting in his newfound respect. "Come get some, ya stinkin' Slayer!"

   "You're both too stupid to live!" Faith hears something growl. Most likely the other demon. "We were told to keep them alive! Hold them off as long as you can --"

   "I knew it!" Willow doesn't sound triumphant. Just more worried. "But if that includes these guys -- what do _they_ get out of it?"

   "Besides dead?" Faith hugs the wall, tuning out the chattering and shouts, trying to sense her foes' position.

   Suddenly there's a shout from the vamp. Faith risks a look to find him clutching his face, which is now covered with some crack baby octopus, or an alien facehugger. The Br'nzeph and the other demon are both gaping, momentarily frozen.

   Faith barrels into the room, pouncing on the Br'nzeph, tearing the gun from its hands. A scream rips from its throat as its claws are ripped out of its paws in the process. She doesn't waste a microsecond, smashing it across the face with the butt of its own rifle, following it down to the floor and repeating the blow.

   The vamp is still struggling with whatever's on his face, falling to his knees. The unnamed demon moves forward, freezing in its tracks as Willow steps into the car. Its oily nostrils flare and sniff the air, a look of sheer hunger in its eyes.

   But a moment's hesitation is all it takes.

   Faith surges up from the floor, striking the gun from the demon's hands. Its skin is an explosion of vomitous earth tones, covered with millions of tiny spikes, a mouth half the size of its head.

   The vamp has bitten through one of his attacker's tentacles, managed to pull the squalling thing from his face and hurl it aside. He staggers forward, howling as acid eats away at his face, into his eyes. Willow takes one look and ducks out of the way, watching him stumble blindly through the door, his outcries fading until they abruptly cut off.

   "Come here, girl..." The demon's spiked jaws stretch wide, nearly engulfing Faith's entire skull. Willow takes it all in, ready to react when the Slayer lets go of her opponent's hands, grabbing the top and bottom halves of his jaws; forcing them beyond their limits before it can do more than scream. The redhead quickly turns away, but the cracking, ripping sound proves too much for her even underneath the uproar, now devolving into yells of gladiatorial support.

   Faith watches her girlfriend stagger over to one corner, delicately retching up last night's dinner. The way this thing is threatening to go off the tracks, she's half tempted to join in.

   "For the love of God, Slayer!" A pretty young werewolf thrashes against her chains, threatening to break her own arm. "Get us out of here!"

   "What's it _look_ like I'm doin'?" Faith yells back. She gives a mighty heave at the nearest link, feeling a hint of give.

   "Don't --" Willow manages, wiping her face. "Those are enchanted. I can smell it --"

   "Can you break 'em out?"

   "We need to stop this thing before it hits! Even without anyone on board, I don't want to think about what'll happen --"

   "I heard them talking!" The thin, reedy voice catches Faith off guard until she spots its owner. The spunky Squidward Junior who took out the vamp. "They said they would live again. We all would!"

   Willow goes into a muttering fugue Faith can't quite hear. "_To live is to die; to die is to live_..." Her eyes widen and she almost falls, as the car sways again on the tracks. "Did they say anything about...a higher plane?"

   A crimson flare strikes her in the chest, hurling her backward.

   "This is a _train_."

   Faith turns to see Long Hair, smiling, his hands glowing bright with power.

   "And you're fucked."

 

**

 

   Of all the possible career paths he might have chosen, playing Harry Potter had been at the bottom of the list. That was before his eyes had been opened, along with all of his other senses in a sheer orgasm of synesthesia. He's actually looking forward to the end.

   This is too good to last.

   The Slayer seems to recognize this. Clearly cognizant of the threat he poses, she stands her ground.

   "Smart." Shay looks over at the witch, who's pulling herself back on her feet. "You -- I expected better."

   He also expected the entire room to denounce him the moment he stepped in, crying Judas or worse. Instead the crowd has fallen silent, leaving the roar and hiss of the engine, the clatter of wheels the only sounds. As if they're accepting their fate.

   "I recognize that." The redhead wipes a thin stream of blood from her nose, holding onto the wall to stay upright. "Borrowed power."

   "A loan as good as a gift." He holds up one hand, admiring the way it sparkles.

   "It won't stop me." The air seems to thicken, growing darker around her.

   "Got no need to stop you." Shay smiles, spreading his arms wide. "Just keep you from stopping us."

   The darkness falters. "Until we crash."

   "Clever girl." He bestows an approving nod. "Just like her."

   "It'll kill you," the witch insists. He finds her concern amusing, almost touching. "It's killing you now."

   "Quality over quantity. In life, as in death." His smile fades. "Almost there. And then we shall _all_ ascend..."

   A meteor crashes through the window.

   Shay throws up his hands, instinctively protecting his face, staggering with the train as it rocks from the impact. Shrieks of confusion fill the air as the force inside him responds automatically to this new threat; a wave of energy flying from him, rocketing toward the invader, only to be absorbed on contact. A rain of dust and pebbles have followed the figure inside, whirling about the enclosed space, further obscuring his vision.

   He squints at the newcomer, searching for something familiar. The being is at least seven feet tall, with wings that brush the ceiling, its slim and muscled form made from living flame that ripples with with every color known to man and some yet undiscovered. More disquieting than the enormous sword in one hand, constructed out of that same fire, is the cold hatred in its dead eyes.

   "_You_." It advances toward him, leaving smoking footprints in the floor.

   "Me, indeed." Shay spreads his arms as his feet leave the ground, floating on air, offering a courtly bow. "You have the advantage."

   "_And soon I'll have your head_."

   "Uriah?" Shay cocks his head in confusion. "My God...what's happened to you? It's too soon --"

   "_Yes_." The incendiary being takes another step. "_Far too soon_..."

   "Then kill me!" Shay throws back his head, exposing his neck. "You won't stop what has been set in motion. We live by _their_ rules! The weak are slaughtered -- the strong become --"

   The hiccup is almost imperceptible. But the train falters, begins to slow.

   He looks at the witch, and sees quiet certainty in her eyes.

   The Slayer comes at him. Shay fires an explosive blast that sends her flying, only to realize too late she was a distraction.

   Then the world turns upside down, as the sword meets his neck.

 

**

 

   Shay's tampering with the governor had left the engine unable to go anywhere but up. At this rate, they might have exploded before they even reached the mines. Possibly. Willow's just glad she took the time to find a minimally invasive solution: Realizing the problem, tweaking the governor, then popping a small hole in each cylinder to let out the pressure.

   The train wavers as it slows, nearly toppling from the tracks. One of the wheel shafts wobbles, slips and sticks, a horrid squeal rising as the sound of escaping steam tapers off. For a moment it seems the beast will fall; and finally it grinds to a reluctant halt, not thirty feet from the entrance to the tunnels.

 

**

 

   In the basement of City Hall, the founding document of Grand Arcadia flares, then ignites, falling away to ash. The stone blade affixing it to the altar is suffused with a hellish glow, sagging, then evaporating almost before it can fully become liquid.

   A single drop falls and strikes the floor, eating away at the stone.

   When the smoke clears, only a darkened stain remains.

 

**

 

   Faith's glad she doesn't have a mirror, because she feels a hell of a lot worse than she probably looks. For a second she'd thought the bastard had turned her into a crispy critter before his energy bolt smacked her into the wall, hard enough to dislocate her famous trick shoulder and leave a Slayer-shaped indentation. Hard to believe Will took one just like it without a scratch. Except they're both of them covered in cuts and bruises, Faith even more so; Willow looking green around the gills, her upper lip smeared with blood.

   Her ears are ringing as they come to a full stop. Uriah's sword makes short work of the enchanted chains, and the mob surges toward the door, almost sticking in a panic before bursting forth, the first ones out helping to assist the rest. Faith watches them practically flee the premises, some casting fearful backward glances. Between a beat-up Slayer, a barely standing witch, or the unholy Mister Clean and his still-dripping Excalibur, she's not sure what they're more afraid of. Or maybe it's the villain turned victim, now separated from the rest of himself; a look of surprise on those handsome features, the ends of his once-long hair smoldering from the touch of the blade.

   "He had help." Faith indicates the body that lies to one side. Blood and power continue to pour from the open wound, seeping into the floorboards, rising like fireflies into the air.

   "I didn't kill them." Uriah watches the mass of the displaced through the window. "They'll be dealt with."

   "Dealt with how?" Willow can't take her eyes off the flaming figure. As if she's trying to see the man she knew, however briefly.

   "That depends." He opens his hand, watching the sword vanish into the air; flexing the fingers, as if puzzled by their presence. "If they aren't killed, they'll probably be...encouraged to leave."

   Faith smirks. "For their own good?"

   "For ours." Uriah heads for the door, and Faith follows, pulling Willow in her wake. The crowd outside gives all three of them ample berth as they emerge.

   "Uriah?" A tiny voice perks up, only to be quickly silenced by a parental hush.

   "You see? They don't recognize me at all." The fiery being folds its wings, gazing to the sky. "At least the neighbors won't care."

   Faith resists the urge to clap him on the back, unwilling to risk burned fingers. Still, she feels she ought to say something.

   A blinding light fills the sky, then condenses to a point with a roar. Coming straight at them --

   "Well."

   The scattered crowd seems frozen in place despite this dramatic entrance, unable to give in to survival instinct and run for the hills. Faith can see why as she stares at the newcomer, now standing before its burning twin; a mirror image in female form rendered more excruciating in its terrible, deliberate beauty. To call it _her_ seems horribly lacking, no pronoun adequate to encompass these two halves of a perfect whole.

   "You look so much better." The smile is like broken teeth. "It's been a long time."

   "Not long enough." Uriah's indifference falls short of the bitterness Faith would normally expect for an ex. But even without his words, this new body of his speaks the same old language. Right now, he'd rather be anywhere but here.

   "She would have been brought back." A soft, warm note of understanding. "If you had allowed it."

   Uriah bows his head.

   "But you chose." It reaches out, daring to touch his cheek. A small eruption of flame issues from the point of contact. "You chose..._me_."

   "No." He takes it

   (_her?_)

   just as gently by the wrist; fire spilling from flesh as he pushes her away.

   "I can't love you," he continues, inexorable. "I don't. I never did...and I never will."

   Faith realizes she's holding her breath as Willow's hand creeps into hers, giving a hard squeeze. She hardly notices, intent on the growing rage and despair on that perfect face --

   The scream nearly shatters her eardrums before it's gone, echoing like the smear of light in her vision, the pillar of flame that consumed itself in the blink of an eye. Uriah stands alone before them, staring at a blackened patch of earth and rock, turned to glass at the center.

   "I'm not surprised." He looks up at Willow; saddened, yet with a glint of humor. "She never could accept me the way I am."

 

**

 

   "I can't do it." Willow discards her pen, staring at the open notebook before her on the desk.

   "Can't write?" Faith's watching her from the bed, propped up on a mound of embarrassingly soft pillows.

   "Can't write _this_. Even if he wasn't letting us stay here --" Willow gestures around the room. "And she wasn't even that nice to me and it feels so much _emptier_ without her, and no matter how hard I try to stick to _just the facts ma'am_, it feels so -- _clinical_. Like if I talk about anything other than the underground railroad -- like the people that ran it -- I'm invading their privacy."

   Faith doesn't respond. After this many arguments, Willow can't blame her. Sooner or later, she's going to have to decide exactly how much to believe; how much to read between the lines, and how much to put in their report. Any discussions between them are off the record, but what's written down becomes permanent. And true.

   "History is written by the winners," she mumbles, gazing at the narrow lines of cursive.

   "What's what?" Faith gives her shoulder an experimental roll, wincing at the audible popping sound. Willow tries not to shudder.

   "You okay over there?"

   "Battered and breaded," Faith chuckles. "Be up and around before you know it. 'Til then -- you get to bring _me_ breakfast in bed."

   "I almost feel guilty," Willow admits. "For not being hurt as bad as you were? I mean, you're the Slayer, but my mystical protections -- that guy was just running on auto, and he could have -- I should have --"

   "Don't," Faith interrupts. "Just...don't. I'm good." She reaches over and grabs Willow's hand. "Long as you're okay."

   Willow returns the squeeze. "As long as _you're_ okay."

   "Don't start." Faith eases back into the pillows. "Besides, you gotta tell Buff. She only stopped _one_ Ascension. What's the population here again?"

   "Don't _you_ start." Willow points a warning finger, pulling it back when the Slayer tries to bite it. Suddenly, she doesn't have the heart to ask if any memories of Mayor Wilkins might be causing her friend pain.

   "Help me figure out what to say?"

   "Later." Faith yawns. "Need some bed rest."

   Willow folds her arms with an unsuccessful glare. "Those words do not go together in your vocabulary."

   Faith looks up with tousled hair, wearing a not so innocent grin.

   "Hello, nurse."

 

**

 

   "Under the circumstances, I didn't think it was worth trying to talk to the locals."

   "_Agreed_."

   "I just sent you some preliminary scans. Hopefully the lab guys can crack whatever scrambling system they're using." David checks his watch. "Put out a few probes, but seismic data's inconclusive. Target's still in the area --"

   "_Keep your distance_." The crisp tone of command carries over the line with remarkable clarity. "_We don't want you getting too close again. Not this soon_."

   "With all due respect -- I realize this is the twenty-first century, and you can track her by satellite -- or whatever -- far better than I could ever hope to." David strives to keep it professional rather than whiny. "But this hands-off approach is not my style. Or my specialty."

   "_Suck it up,_" his superior orders. "_And stick it out. Not to get your hopes up -- but we just might be getting some decent inside info from our friendly neighborhood limey bastards_."

   "Their friends in the Council." David looks out over the hillside, gazing at the valley below. He wouldn't mind a little cabin in these woods himself, come retirement. Assuming he lives that long.

   "_I'm thinking any day now, things are gonna get a hell of a lot easier_."

   David sighs, climbing back in the car.

   "I doubt it."

 

**

 

   The smell of fresh turned earth is strong in the air, almost alien to his newly awakened senses. He'd forgotten the power of this form he had abandoned so many years ago, to wear that mortal mask, and yet he would surrender it again in a heartbeat to have his beloved with him; to sit by her side in peaceful silence, watching sunlight drift through the trees. His race were barren in any form, phenomenally long-lived, only reproducing when they chose to join together and end their own existence.

   And after today, he might be the last of his kind.

   "I'll stay." He kneels, pressing his fingers to the ground. "For you."

   His only answer is the wind in the leaves.

   "See? Right over there." He points at the old building. "You can see the train station from here."

   He leaps into the air with a flap of his wings, disappearing in the sky.

   It's going to be a beautiful day.

 

 

 

 

     _The smile and the wave as we passed swiftly by  
     The homesteader back in the bush  
     The thrill that we felt with home drawing nigh  
     Then the stopping -- the silence -- the hush.  
     Yes, I doze in my chair, and my time is my own  
     But I live in the past, so it seems;  
     Thrilling once more to the joys that I've known  
     As I live them again -- in my dreams._

       - The Rhyming Railroader

 

\--

Notes:

Sensibly rejected titles for this episode:

\- "Snow Me"  
\- "I've Been Workin' On the Railroad"

Big Action Scene shamelessly inspired by The Folksmen's "Blood On the Coal", with elements of Buffy 4x11 "Doomed".

The timeline I found said Wilkins came to California in 1880. Most of the crucial events in both the 'real' (history is written...) and the fictional Deadwood took place in the decade leading up to that time, which only justified its resemblance and cemented the homage.

See also:

[The Great Railroad Strike of 1877](http://www.ohiohistorycentral.org/entry.php?rec=503)

[The Rhyming Railroader's contribution](http://www.cwrr.com/Lounge/Stories/poetry/number10.html)


End file.
